THE  UBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORI^iA 

LOS  ANGELES 


d 


I 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

WITH  A  MEMOIR 

SEVEN  VOLUMES   IN   THREE 
VOL.    XL 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY 
Cbc  Ei^ci-Bitf  Bvces,  Cimbrtticic 

1880 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  ^-ear  1854,  by 

LITTLE,   BROWN  AND   COMPjVNY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massa- 
chusetts 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Printe/I  by  H.  ().  Houghton  and  Conipatiy 


PR 


CONTENTS   OF  VOLTJl^IE  II. 

COMPKISING  YOLS.  HI.,  IV.,  AND  V. 


VOL.  m. 


aiEMOElALS   OF   A  TOUR  K    SCOTLAND,  1803. 

Page 

Departure  from  the  Vale  of  Grasmere,  August,  1803  .    .  1 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns,  1803,  Seven  Years  after  his  Death  2 
Thoughts  suggested  the  Day  following,  on  the  Banks  of 

Nith,  near  the  PoetV.  Residence 6 

To  the  Sons  of  Burns,  after  visiting  the  Grave  of  their 

Father 9 

Ellen  Irwin :  or,  The  Braes  of  Kirtle 11 

To  a  Highland  Girl 13 

Glen-Almain:  or,  The  Narrow  Glen 16 

Stepping  Westward 1^ 

The  Solitary  Reaper 19 

Address  to  Kilchurn  Castle,  upon  Loch  Awe 20 

Rob  Roy's  Grave 23 

Sonnet,  composed  at Castle 28 

Yarrow  Unvisited 29 

Sonnet,  in  the  Pass  of  Killicranky 32 

The  Matron  of  Jedborough  and  her  Husband      .    .  33 

Fly,  some  kind  Harbinger,  to  Grasmere  dale  ....  36 

The  Blind  Highland  Boy 37 

MEMORIALS   OF   A  TOUR  IN   SCOTLAND,  1814. 

The  Brownie's  Cell 4ft 

Ctoiposed  at  Cora  Linn,  in  sight  of  Wallace's  Tower  .    .  52 


IV  CONTENTS. 

EflEVision,  in  the  Pleasure-ground  on  the  Banks  of  the 

Bran,  near  Dunkeld 55 

Yarrow  Visited,  September,  1814 60 

POEMS  DEDICATED  TO  NATIONAL  INDEPENDENCE 
AND   LIBERTY. 

Part  I. 

Composed  by  the  Sea-side,  near  Calais,  August,  1802  .    .  64 

Is  it  a  reed  that 's  shaken  by  the  wind 65 

Composed  near  Calais,  on  the  Road  leading  to  Ardres, 

August  7,  1802 65 

I  grieved  for  Buonaparte,  with  a  vain 66 

Festivals  have  1  seen  that  were  not  names 67 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic 67 

The  King  of  Sweden 68 

To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture 69 

We  had  a  female  Passenger  who  came 63 

Composed  in  the  Valley  near  Dover,  on  the  Daj-  of  Land- 
ing    70 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood  . 71 

Thought  of  a  Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Switzerland  .  71 

Written  in  London.  September,  1802 72 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour 73 

Great  men  have  been  among  us.;  hands  that  penned  .     .  73 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of,  that  the  Flood 74 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed  ....  74 

One  might  believe  that  natural  miseries 75 

There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear 76 

These  times  strike  moneyed  worldlings  with  dismaj'  .     .  76 

England !  the  time  has  come  when  thou  shouldst  wean    .  77 

When,  looking  on  the  present  face  of  things 78 

To  the  Jlen  of  Kent,  October,  1803 78 

What  if  our  numbers  barely  could  defy 79 

Lines  on  the  Expected  Invasion,  1803 80 

Anticipation,  October,  1803 81 

Another  year!  —  another  deadly  blow! 81 

Ode.     Who  rises  on  the  banks  of  Seine 82 


CONTENTS. 


Pakt  II. 


On  a  Celebrated  Event  in  Ancient  History      ....         86 

Upon  the  same  Event 86 

To  Thomas  Clarkson,  on  the  Final  Passing  of  the  Bill  for 

the  Abolition  of  the  Slave-Trade 86 

A  Prophecj',  February,  1807 87 

Composed  by  the  Side  of  Grasmere  Lake 88' 

Go  back  to  antique  ages,  if  thine  eyes 88 

Composed  while  the  Author  was  engaged  in  writing  a 

Tract,  occasioned  by  the  Convention  of  Cintra     .     .    89 
Composed  at  the  same  Time  and  on  the  same  Occasion  .    90 

Hoffer 90 

Advance,  ccne  forth  from  thy  TjTolean  gi-ouiid      ...    91 

Feelings  of  the  Tyrolese 92 

Alas !  what  boots  the  long,  laborious  quest  ■ 92 

And  is  it  among  rude,  untutored  Dales 93 

O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain   ....    93 

On  the  Final  Submission  of  the  TjTolese 94 

Hail,  Zaragoza!     If  with  unwet  eye 95 

Say,  what  is  Honor?  —  'T  is  the  finest  sense 95 

The  martial  courage  of  a  day  is  vain 96 

Brave  Schill !  by  death  delivered,  take  thy  flight    .    .         96 

Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate 97 

Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hath  paid      ....    98 

Is  there  a  power  that  can  sustain  and  cheer 98 

Ah!  where  is  Palafox?    Nor  tongue  nor  pen      ....    99 

In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite 99 

Feelings  of  a  Noble  Biscayan  at  one  of  those  Funerals     .  100 

The  Oak  of  Guernica 101 

Indignation  of  a  High-minded  Spaniard 102 

Avaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind 102 

O'erweening  Statesmen  have  full  long  relied 103 

The  French  and  the  Spanish  Guerillas 104 

Spanish  Guerillas 104 

The  power  of  Armies  is  a  visible  thing 105 

Here  pause:  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise  ....  106 

The  French  Army  in  Russia 106 

On  the  same  Occasion 108 


VI  CONTENTS. 

By  Moscow  self-devoted  to  a  blaze 109 

The  Germans  on  the  Heights  of  Hockheim 109 

Now  that  all  hearts  are  glad,  all  faces  bright  ....  110 
Ode,  1814.  —  When  the  soft  hand  of  sleep  had  closed  the 

latch Ill 

Feelings  of  a  French  Royalist,  on  the  Disinterment  of 

the  Remains  of  the  Due  d'Enghien 117 

Occasioned  by  the  Battle  of  Waterloo 117 

Siege  of  Vienna  raised  by  John  Sobieski life 

Occasioned  by  the  Battle  of  Waterloo 119 

Emperors  and  Kings,  how  oft  have  temples  rung  .    .     .  119 

Ode,  1815.  —  Imagination — ne'er  before  content  .  .  .  120 
Ode.  —  The  Slorning  of  the  Day  appointed  for  a  General 

Thanksgiving,  January  18,  1816 12t 

MEMORIALS  OF  A  TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT,  1820. 

Dedication 13£ 

Fish-women.  —  On  Landing  at  Calais 135 

Bruges 136 

Bruges 137 

Incident  at  Bruges 137 

After  visiting  the  Field  of  Waterloo 139 

Between  Namur  and  Liege 140 

Aix-la-Chapelle 140 

In  the  Cathedral  at  Cologne 141 

In  a  Carriage,  upon  the  Banks  of  '^he  Rhine  ....  142 
Hymn,  for  the  Boatmen,  as  they  approach  the  Rapids 

under  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg 142 

The  Source  of  the  Danube 144 

On  approaching  tli.e  Staub-bach,  Lauterbrunnen  .    .    .  144 

The  Fall  of  the  Aar,  Hnndec 145 

Memorial,  near  the  Outlet  of  the  Lake  of  Thun     .     .    .  146 

Composed  in  one  of  the  Catholic  Cantons 147 

^fter-thought 148 

Scene  on  the  Lake  of  Brientz 149 

Kngelberg,  the  Hill  of  Angels 149 

Our  Lady  of  the  Snow 160 


CONTENTS.  VU 

Effusion,  in  Presence  of  the  Painted  Tower  of  Tell,  at 

Altorf 152 

The  Town  of  Schwytz 154 

On  hearing  the  "  Ranz  des  Vaches  "  on  the  Top  of  the 

Pass  of  St.  Gothard 154 

Fort  Fnentes 155 

The  Church  of  San  Salvador,  seen  from  the  Lake  of 

Lugano 157 

The  Italian  Itinerant,  and  the  Swiss  Goatherd.  —  Part  I.  159 

Part  II.  162 
The  Last  Supper,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  in  the  Refec- 
tory of  the  Convent  of  Maria  della  Grazia,  Milan    .  163 

The  Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  1820 164 

The  Three  Cottage  Girls 168 

The  Column  intended  by  Buonaparte  for  a  Triumphal 
Edifice  in  Milan,  now  lying  by  the  Way-side  in  the 

Simplon  Pass 171 

Stanzas,  composed  in  the  Simplon  Pass 172 

Echo,  upon  the  Gemmi 173 

Processions.     Suggested  on  a  Sabbath  Morning  in  the 

Vale  of  Chamouny 174 

Elegiac  Stanzas 177 

Sky-Prospect,  —  from  the  Plain  of  France 182 

On  being  stranded  near  the  Harbor  of  Boulogne    .     .    .  182 

After  Landing,  —  The  Valley  of  Dover 183 

At  Dover 1?4 

Desultory  Stanzas ISl 

MEMORIALS   OF   A  TOUR  IN  ITALY,  1837. 

To  Henry  Crabb  Robinson 189 

Musings  near  Aquapendente 190 

The  Pine  of  Monte  Mario  at  Rome 203 

At  Rome 204 

At  Rome.  —  Regrets.  —  In  Allusion  to  Niebuhr  and  other 

Modern  Historians 204 

Continued 205 

Plea  for  tlie  Historian .208 


VIU  CONTENTS. 

At  Rome 209 

Near  Rome,  in  Sight  of  St.  Peter's 207 

At  Albano 208 

Near  Anio's  stream,  I  spied  a  gentle  Dove 208 

From  the  Alban  Hills,  looking  towards  Rome    ....  209 

Near  the  Lake  of  Thrasymene 210 

Near  the  same  Lake 210 

The  Cuclcoo  at  Laverna 211 

At  the  Convent  of  Camaldoli 215 

Continued 216 

At  the  Eremite  or  Upper  Convent  of  Camaldoli      .    .    .  217 

At  Vallombrosa 218 

At  Florence 220 

Before  the  Picture  of  the  Baptist,  by  Raphael,  in  the  Gal- 
lery at  Florence 220 

At  Florence.  —  From  Michael  Angelo 221 

At  Florence.  —  From  Michael  Angelo 222 

Among  the  Ruins  of  a  Convent  in  the  Apennines  .     .     .  222 

In  Lombardy 223 

After  leaving  Italy 224 

Continued 224 

Composed  at  Rydal  on  May  Morning,  1838 225 

The  Pillar  of  Trajan 226 

The  Egyptian  Maid:   or,  The  Romance  of  the 

Water-Lily 229 


THE  RIVER  DUDDON.  —  A  Series  of  Sonnets. 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wordsworth 246 

Not  envying  Latian  shades,  —  if  yet  they  throw    .     .     .  249 

Child  of  the  clouds !  remote  from  everj'  taint   ....  249 

How  shall  I  paint  thee  ?  —  Be  this  naked  stone  ....  260 

Take,  cradled  Nursling  of  the  mountain,  take  ....  250 

Sole  listener,  Duddon !  to  the  breeze  that  played  ...  251 

Flowers    .    .    ; 252 

"  Change  me,  some  God,  into  that  breathing  rose !  "  .    .  252 

What  aspect  bore  the  Man  who  roved  or  fled    ...  253 

The  Stepping-stones ...  254 


CONTENTS.  tX 

The  same  Subject 254 

The  Faery  Chasm 255 

Hints  for  the  Fancy 256 

Open  Prospect 256 

0  mountain  Stream!  the  Shepherd  and  his  Cot    ...  257 

From  this  deep  chasm,  wliere  quivering  sunbeams  play  258 

American  Tradition 258 

Return 259 

Seathwaite  Chapel 260 

Tributary  Stream 260 

Tlie  Plain  of  Donnerdale 261 

Whence  that  low  voice?  —  A  whisper  from  the  heart     .  262 

Tradition 262 

Sheep-washing .' 263 

The  Resting-place 264 

Methinks  't  were  no  unprecedented  feat 264 

Return,  Content!  for  fondly  I  pursued 265 

Fallen,  and  diffused  into  a  shapeless  heap 265 

Journey  renewed 266 

No  record  tells  of  lance  opposed  to  lance 267 

Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce      .    .  267 

The  Kirk  of  Ulpha  to  the  pilgi-ira's  eye 268 

Not  hurled  precipitous  from  steep  to  steep 269 

Conclusion 269 

After-thought 270 


YARROW  REVISITED,  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ccui  posed  (two  excepted)  during  a  Tour  in  Scotland,  and  on  the  Eng- 
lish Border,  in  the  Autvimn  of  1831. 

The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained 271 

On  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  from  Abbotsford, 

for  Naples 276 

A  Place  of  Burial  in  the  South  of  Scotland 276 

On  the  Sight  of  a  Manse  in  the  South  of  Scotland    .    .  277 

Composed  in  Roslin  Chapel,  during  a  Storm      ....  278 

The  Trosachs ^''^ 


X  CONTENTS. 

The  pibroch's  note,  discountenanced  or  mute    ....  279 

Composed  in  the  Glen  of  Loch  Etive 280 

Eagles.     Composed  at  Dunollie  Castle  in  the  Bay  of 

Oban 280 

In  the  Sound  of  Mull 281 

Suggested  at  Tyndrum  in  a  Storm 282 

The  Earl  of  Breadalbane's  Ruined  Mansion,  and  Familv 

Burial-place,  near  Killin 282 

"Eest  and  be  Thankful!  "     At  the  Head  of  Glencroe    .  263 

Highland  Hut 284 

The  Highland  Broach 285 

The  Brownie 288 

To  the  Planet  Venus,  an  Evening  Star.    Composed  at 

Loch  Lomond 289 

Botliwell  Castle.    Passed  unseen,  on  Account  of  Stormy 

Weather 290 

Picture  of  Daniel  in  the  Lion's  Den,  at  Hamilton  Palace  291 

The  Avon.    A  Feeder  of  the  Annan 291 

Suggested  by  a  View  from  an  Eminence  in  Inglewood 

Forest 292 

Hart's-Horn  Tree,  near  Penrith 293 

Fancy  and  Tradition 293 

Countess'  Pillar 294 

Roman  Antiquities.     From  the  Roman  Station  at  Old 

Penrith 295 

Apology  for  the  foregoing  Poems 296 

Notes 29!" 


VOL.  IV. 

THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE;  or,  The  Fate 

O)?  THE  NoRTONS.  —  Dedication 1 

Canto  1 4 

Canto  II 16 

Canto  III 25 

Canto  IV 87 


CONTENTS.  XI 

Canto  V 45 

Canto  VI 62 

Canto  Vn 59 


ECCLESIASTICAL   SONNETS. 

Pabt  [.  —  From  the  Introduction  of  Christianity 
INTO  Britain,  to  the  Consumjiation  of  the  Papat. 
Dominion. 

Introduction 72 

Conjertures 73 

Trepidutiou  of  the  Dniids 74 

Druidical  Excommunication 74 

Uncertainty 75 

Persecution 76 

Recovery 76 

Temptations  from  Roman  Refinements 77 

Dissensions 78 

Struggle  of  the  Britons  against  the  Barbarians    ....  78 

Saxon  Conquest 79 

Monastery  of  Old  Bangor 80 

Casual  Incitement 80 

Glad  Tidings 81 

Paulinus 82 

Persuasion 82 

Conversion 83 

Apology 84 

Primitive  Saxon  Clergy :4 

Other  Influences 85 

Sselusion 86 

Continued SO 

Reproof 87 

Saxon  Monasteries,  and  Lights  and  Shades  of  tlie  Re- 
ligion    88 

Missions  and  Travels 88 

Alfred 89 

[lis  Descendants 90 

[nfluence  abused 90 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

Danish  Conquests 91 

Canute 92 

The  Norman  Conquest 92 

Coldly  we  spake.    The  Saxons,  overpowered     ....  93 

The  Council  of  Clermont 94 

Crusades 94 

Richard  1 95 

An  Interdict 96 

Papal  Abuses .96 

Scene  in  Venice 97 

Pnpal  Dominion 98 


Part  II.  —  To   the  Close  of  the   Troubles    in  the 
Reign  of  Charles  I. 

How  soon,  alas!  did  Man,  created  pure 98 

From  false  assumption  rose,  and,  fondly  hailed  ....    99 

Cistertian  Monastery 100 

Deplorable  his  lot  who  tills  the  ground     ...         .  100 

Monk?  and  Schoolmen 101 

Other  Benefits 102 

Continued 102 

Crusaders 103 

As  faith  thus  sanctified  the  wairior's  crest 104 

Where  long  and  deeply  hath  been  fixed  the  root    .    .    .  104 

Transubstantiation 105 

The  Vaudois 105 

Praised  be  the  Rivers,  from  their  mountain  springs    .    .  106 

Waldenses 107 

Archbishop  Chichely  to  Henry  V. 107 

Wars  of  York  and  Lancaster 108 

Wiclifle 109 

Corruptions  of  the  Higher  Clergy 109 

Abuse  of  Monastic  Power 110 

Monastic  Voluptuousness Ill 

Dissolution  of  the  Monasteries Ill 

The  same  Subject 112 

Continued 113 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

Siiints 113 

The  Virgin 114 

Apology 114 

Imaginative  Regrets 115 

Reflections 116 

Translation  of  the  Bible 116 

The  Point  at  Issue 117 

Edward  VI 118 

Edward  signing  the  Warrant  for  the  Execution  of  loan 

of  Kent 118 

Revival  of  Popery 119 

Latimer  and  Ridley 120 

Cranmer 120 

General  View  of  the  Troubles  of  the  Refonnation     .    .  121 

English  Reformers  in  Exile 122 

Elizabeth 122 

Eminent  Reformers 123 

The  Same 124 

Distractions ..  124 

Gunpowder  Plot 136 

Illustration.     The  Jung-Frau  and  the  Fall  of  the  Rhine 

near  Schaffhausen 126 

Troubles  of  Charles  the  First 126 

Laud 127 

Afflictions  of  England 128 


Part  III.  —  From  the  Restoration  to  the  Present 
Times. 

I  saw  the  figure  of  a  lovely  Maid 128 

Patriotic  Sympathies 129 

Charles  the  Second 130 

Latitudinarianism 130 

Walton's  Book  of  Lives 131 

Clerical  Integrity 132 

?ersecution  of  the  Scottish  Covenanters 132 

Acquittal  of  the  Bishops 133 

William  the  Third 134 


SIV  CONTENTS. 

Obligations  of  Civil  to  Religious  Liberty  ......  134 

Sacheverel 186 

Down  a  swift  stream,  thus  far,  a  bold  design     ....  135 
Aspects  of  Christianity  in  America. 

I.     The  Pilgrim  Fathers 136 

II.     Continued 137 

III.     Concluded.  —  American  Episcopacy     ....  137 

Bishops  and  Priests,  blessed  are  ye,  if  deep 138 

Places  of  Worship 139 

Pastoral  Character ■..  139 

The  Liturgy 140 

Baptism 141 

Sponsors 141 

Catechizing * 142 

Confirmation 143 

Confirmation,  Continued 143 

Sacrament 144 

The  Marriage  Ceremony 144 

Thankssriving  after  Childbirth 145 

Visitation  of  the  Sick     , 146 

The  Comminatiou  Service 146 

Forms  of  Prayer  at  Sea 147 

Funeral  Service 148 

Rural  Ceremony 148 

Regrets 149 

Mutability 150 

Old  Abbeys 150 

Emigrant  French  Clergy 151 

Congratulation 152 

New  Churches 152 

Church  to  be  erected 153 

Continued 154 

New  Churchyard 154 

Cathedi-als,  etc 155 

Inside  of  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge 156 

The  Same 156 

Continued 157 

Ejaculation 158 

Conclusion 168 


CONTENTS.  XV 


EVENING   VOLUNTARIES. 

Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose 160 

On  a  High  Part  of  the  Coast  of  Cumberland    ....  161 

By  the  Sea-side 163 

Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 164 

By  the  Side  of  Rydal  Mere 165 

Soft  as  a  cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge,  —  the  Mere  ....  167 

The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak-crowned  hill    .    .    .  168 

The  sun  has  long  been  set 170 

Composed  upon  an  Evening  of  extraordinary  Splendor 

and  Beauty 170 

Composed  by  the  Sea-shore 174 

The  Crescent-moon,  the  Star  of  Love 176 

To  the  Jloon.    ( Composed  by  the  Sea-side,  on  the  Coast 

of  Cumberland) 175 

To  the  Moon.    Rydal 178 

To  Lucca  Giordano 180 

Who  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  moon  on  high      .    .    .  181 

Where  lies  the  truth?  has  Man,  in  wisdom's  creed    .     .  182 


POEMS,    COMPOSED    OR   SUGGESTED   DURING  A 
TOUR,  IN   THE   SUMMER   OF   1833. 

Adieu,  Rydalian  Laurels !  that  have  grown 183 

Why  should  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  through  this  Isle  184 

They  called  thee  Merry  England,  in  old  time    .    .    .  184 

To  the  River  Greta,  near  Keswick 185 

To  the  River  Derwent 186 

In  Sight  of  the  Town  of  Cockermouth 186 

Address  from  the  Spirit  of  Cockermouth  Castle    •     .     .  187 

Nun's  Well,  Brigham 188 

To  a  Friend.  (On  the  Banks  of  the  Derwent)  ...  188 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots.     (Landing  at  the  Mouth  of  the 

Derwent,  Workington) 189 

Stanzas  suggested  in  a  Steamboat  off  St.  Bees'  Heads, 

on  the  Coast  of  Cumberland 190 

In  the  Cliainiel,  between  tlie  Coast  of  Cumberland  and 

the  Isle  of  Man   .    .    .     •         196 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

At  Sea  off  the  Isle  of  Man 197 

Desire  we  past  illusions  to  recall? 197 

On  entering  Douglas  Bay,  Isle  of  Man 198 

By  the  Sea-shore,  Isle  of  Man     ...         199 

Isle  of  Man 200 

Isle  of  Man 200 

By  a  Retired  Mariner.  (A  Friend  of  the  Author)  .  .  201 
At  Bala-Sala,  Isle  of  Man.    (Supposed  to  be  written  by 

a.  Friend) 202 

TyiiwaldHill 202 

Despond  who  will,  —  /heard  a  voice  exclaim  ....  203 
In  the  Frith  of  Clyde,  Ailsa  Crag.    (During  an  Eclipse 

ot  tie  Sun,  July  17) 204 

On  the  Frith  of  Clyde.     (In  a  Steamboat) 204 

On  revisiting  Dunolly  Castle 206 

'■"heDunoily  Kngle 206 

Written  in  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Macpherson's  Ossian  .    •    .  206 

Cave  of  Staffa 209 

Cave  of  Staffa.    After  the  Crowd  had  departed    .    .    .  210 

Cave  of  Staffa 211 

Flowers  on  the  Top  of  the  Pillars  at  the  Entrance  of  the 

Cave 211 

lona 212 

lona.     Upon  Landing 213 

The  Black  Stones  of  lona 214 

Homeward  we  turn.    Isle  of  Columba's  Cell    ....  214 

Greenock 215 

"  There !  "  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride     .  216 

The  River  Eden,  Cumberland 216 

Monument  of  Mrs.  Howard,  (by  Nollekens,)  in  Wetheral 

Church,  near  Corby,  on  the  Banks  of  the  Eden  .    .  217 

Suggested  by  the  foregoing 218 

Nunnery 218 

Steamboats,  Viaducts,  and  Railways 219 

The   Monument   commonly  called  Long  Meg  and  her 

Daughters,  near  the  River  Eden 220 

Lowther 221 

To  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale 221 

The  Somnambulist 222 

I 


CONTENTS.  Xvii 

To  Cordelia  M ,  Hallsteads,  Ullswater 22S 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 229 

POEMS   OF   SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 

Expostulation  and  Reply 23C 

The  Tables  Turned.    An  Evening  Scene  on  the  same 

Subject 232 

Lines  written  in  Early  Spring 2-33 

A  Character 234 

To  my  Sister 235 

Simon   Lee,  the  Old  Huntsman:   with  an  Incident  in 

which  he  was  concerned 237 

Written  in  Germany,  on  one  of  the  Coldest  Days  of  the 

Century 241 

A  Poet's  Epitaph   .         ...              243 

To  the  Daisy 246 

Jkitthew 247 

The  Two  April  Mornings 248 

The  Fountain.     A  Conversation 251 

Personal  Talk 254 

Illustrated  Books  and  Newspapers 257 

To  the  Spade  of  a  Friend.     (An  Agriculturist.)     Com- 
posed while  we  were  laboring  together  in  his  Pleas- 

ure-Ground 257 

A  Night  Thought 259 

Incident  characteristic  of  a  Favorite  Dog 260 

Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  the  same  Dog 262 

Fidelity 263 

Ode  to  Duty 266 

Chai-acter  of  the  Happy  Warrior 268 

The  Force  of  Prayer;  or,  The  Founding  of  Bolton  Priory. 

A  Tradition 271 

A  Fact,  and  an  Imagination;  or,  Canute  and  Alfred,  on 

the  Sea-shore 274 

A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 276 

Ode  to  Lycoris 279 

To  the  same ,...-  281 


XV!H  CONTENTS. 

The  sylvan  slopes  with  coru-clad  fields 283 

Upon  the  same  Occasion 284 

Memory 287 

This  Lawn,  a  carpet  all  alive 288 

Humanity 289 

The  unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams 293 

Thoughts  on  the  Seasons 294 

To ,  upon  the  Birth  of  her  First-born  Child,  March, 

1833 295 

The  Warning.     A  Sequel  to  the  foregoing 298 

If  this  gi-eat  world  of  joy  and  pain 304 

The  Laborer's  Noonday  Hymn 305 

Ode,  composed  on  May  Morning 306 

To  May 3u9 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Portrait  from  the  Pencil  of  F.  Stone  313 

T!ie  foregoing  Subject  resumed 318 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive 319 

I'pon  seeing  a  Colored  Drawing  of  the  Bird  of  Paradise 

in  an  Album 320 


SONNETS   DEDICATED   TO   LIBERTY  AND    ORDER. 

Composed  after  reading  a  Newspaper  of  the  Day  .    .    .  323 

Upon  the  late  General  Fast.     ]\Iarch,  1832 324 

Said  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud 324 

Blest  Statesman  he,  whose  Mind's  unselfish  will  .  .  .  325 
In  Allusion  to  various  recent  Histories  and  Notices  of  the 

French  Revolution 326 

Continued 326 

Concluded 327 

Men  of  the  Western  World  1  in  Fate's  dark  book  ...  327 

To  the  Pennsylvanians 328 

At  Bologna,  in  Remembrance  of  the  late  Insurrections, 

1837 328 

Continued 329 

<:oncluded 330 

Young  England,  —  what  is  then  become  of  Old     .    .    .  330 

Feel  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken 831 


CONTENTS.  Xix 

SONNETS  UPON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH. 

Suggested  by  the  View  of  Lancaster  Castle  (on  the  Road 

from  the  South) 332 

Tenderly  do  we  feel  by  Nature's  law 833 

The  Roman  Consul  doomed  his  sons  to  die 333 

Is  Death,  when  evil  against  good  has  fought 334 

Not  to  the  object  specially  designed 334 

Ys  brood  of  conscience,  Spectres !  that  frequent   .         .  335 

Before  the  world  had  passed  her  time  of  youth      .  336 

Fit  retribution,  by  the  moral  code 338 

Though  to  give  timely  warning  and  deter 337 

Our  bodily  life,  some  plead,  that  life  the  shrine      .     .     .  337 

Ail!  tl'ink  how  one  compelled  for  life  to  abide  ....  33** 

See  the  Condemned  alone  within  tus  ceh Sa9 

Conclusion rf^y 

A|K)l()i;y .     .  340 

MoTus ii-il 


VI 


VOL.    V. 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Kpistle  to  Sir  George  Howland  Beaumont,  Bart.     Frf.m 
the  Southwest  Coast  of  Cumberland. —  1811   ...       1 

Upon  perusing  the  foregoing  Epistle  Thirty  Years  after 
its  Composition 

Gold  and  Silver  Fishes  in  a  Vase 1^ 

Libertv.     (Sequel  to  the  Preceding.)     [Addressed  to  a 
Friend;  the  Gold  and  Silver  Fishes  having  been  re 
moved  to  a  Pool  in  the  Pleasure-Ground  of  Rydal 

Mount.] ^^ 

21 
Poor  Robin 

The  Gleaner.    (Suggested  by  a  Picture) 22 

To  a  Redbreast  — (in  Sickness) 24 

I  know  an  aged  Man  constrained  to  dwell 24 


XX  CONTEXTS. 

Sonnet.     (To  an  Octogenarian) 23 

Floating  Island 27 

Kow  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night,  on  high 28 

Once  I  could  hail  (howe'er  serene  the  sky)  .....  28 
To  the  Lady  Fleming,  on  seeing  the  Foundation  preparing 

for  the  Erection  of  Rydal  Chapel,  Westmoreland  .    .  30 

On  the  same  Occasion 86 

The  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle .13 

Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill.     A  true  Story 41 

Prelude,  prDfixed  to  the  Volume  entitled  "  Poems  chiefly 

of  Early  and  Late  Years  " 46 

To  a  Child.     Written  in  her  Album 4»> 

Lines  written  in  the  Album  of  the  Countess  of  Lonsdale. 

Nov.  5,  1834 48 

Grace  Darling 52 

The  Russian  Fugitive.  —  Part  1 56 

Part  n 59 

Part  HI 62 

Part  IV 65 


INSCRIPTIONS. 

In  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton,  the  Seat  of  Sir  George  Beau- 
mont, Bart.,  Leicestershire 70 

In  a  Garden  of  the  Same 71 

Written  at  the  Request  of  Sir  George  Beaumont,  Bart., 
and  in  his  Name,  *or  an  Urn,  placed  by  him  at  the 
Termination  of  a  newly  planted  Ayenue,  in  the  same 
Grounds 72 

For  a  Seat  in  the  Groves  of  Coleorton 78 

Written  with  a  Pencil  upon  a  Stone  in  the  Wall  of  the 
House  (an  Out-honse),  on  the  Island  at  Grasmere     .     74 

Written  with  a  Slate  Pencil  on  a  Stone,  on  the  Side  of  the 
Mountain  of  Black  Comb 75 

Written  with  a  Slate  Pencil  upon  a  Stone,  the  largest  of  a 
Heap  lying  near  a  deserted  Quarry,  upon  one  of  the 
Islands  at  Rydal 76 

In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  Tree 78 


CONTENTS.  XXI 

The  m.issy  Ways,  carried  across  these  heights    ....  78 
Inscriptions  supposed  to  be  found  in  and  near  a  Henuit's 
Cell. 

I.  —  Hopes,  what  are  they?  —  Beads  of  morning  .  79 

n. — Inscribed  upon  a  Itock 81 

III.  —  Hast  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant ....  S3 

IV.  —  Near  the  Spring  of  the  Hermitage     ....  83 
V.  —  Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest 83 

For  the  Spot  where  the  Hermitage  stood  on  St.  Her- 
bert's Island,  Derwent- Water 84 

On  the  Banks  of  a  Eocky  Stream 66 

SELECTIONS  FROM  CHAUCER,  MODERNIZED. 

The  Prioress'  Tale 87 

The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale 87 

Troilus  and  Cresida 112 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE. 

The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar 119 

The  Fanner  of  Tilsbury  Vale 126 

The  Small  Celandine 131 

The  Two  Thieves ;  or,  The  Last  Stage  of  Avarice      .    .  132 

Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay 134 


EPITAPHS   AND   ELEGIAC   PIECES. 


Epitaphs  translated  from  Chiabrera. 

Weep  not,  beloved  Friends !  nor  let  the  air  .  . 
Perhaps  some  needful  service  of  the  State  .  . 
0  thou  who  movest  onward  with  a  mind  .  . 
There  never  breathed  a  man  who,  when  his  life 

True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero 

Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy  .... 
0  flower  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood  . 
Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  he  .  . 
Pause,  courteous  Spirit! — Balbi  supplicates   . 


136 
136 
137 

138 
139 
140 
141 
142 
143 


XXll  CONTENTS. 

By  a  blest  Husband  guided,  JTary  came 144 

Six  months  to  six  years  added  he  remained 145 

Cenotaph 145 

Epitaph  in  the  Chapel-Yard  of  Langdale,  Westmoreland     146 

Address  to  the  Scholars  of  the  Village  School  of 147 

Elegiac  Stanzas,  suggested  b)'  a  Picture  of  I'eele  Castle, 

in  a  Storm,  painted  by  Sir  George  Beaumont      .    .    150 

To  the  Daisy 153 

tlegiac  Verses,  in  Jlemory  of  my  Brother,  John  Words- 
worth, Commander  of  the  E.  I.  Company's  Ship,  the 
Earl  of  Abergavenny,  in  which  he  perished  by  a  Ca- 
lamitous Shipwreck,  Feb.  6,  1805 ?66 

Sonnet 151* 

Lines  composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  Walk  one  Even- 
ing, after  a  Stormj"-  Day,  the  Author  having  just  read 
in  a  Newspaper  that  the  Dissolution  of  Mr.  Fox  was 

hourly  expected 160 

Invocation  to  the  Earth.     Febnaarj-,  1816 161 

Lines  written  on  a  Blank  Leaf  in  a  Copy  of  the  Author's 
Poem  "  The  Excursion,"  upon  hearing  of  the  Death 

of  the  late  Vicar  of  Kendal 163 

Elegiac  Stanzas.    (Addressed  to  Sir  G.  H.  B.  upon  the 

Death  of  his  Sister-in-Law) 163 

Elegiac  Musings  in  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton  Hall,  the 

Seat  of  the  late  Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  Bart.     .    .    .     166 

Written  after  the  Death  of  diaries  Lamb 168 

Extempore  Efi'usion  upon  the  Death  of  James  Hogg  .     .     1T3 
Inscription  for  a  Monument  in  Crosthwaite  Church,  in 

the  Vale  of  Keswick 175 

ODE.  I>'TiMATioxs  OF  Immoi'.tality  from  Recol- 
lections OF  Eakly  Childhood 177 

NOTES 186 


APPENDIX,   PREFACES,  etc.,  etc. 

"Preface  to  the  Second  Edition  of  several  of  the  foregoing 
Poems,  published,  with  an  additional  Volume,  under 
the  Title  of  "  Lyrical  Ballads  " 1S9 


CONTENTS.  Xxiii 

Appendix 227 

Essay,  supplementary  to  the  Preface 235 

Dedication,  prefixed  to  the  Edition  of  1815 278 

Preface  to  the  Edition  of  1815 280 

Postscript 303 

Index  to  the  Poems ,  339 

[ndex  to  the  First  Luiea «    .    *    ,  848 


MEMORIALS    OF    A    TOUR     IN 
SCOTLAND. 

1803. 


I. 

DEPARTURE 

FBOM  THE   VALE  OF   GEASMEKE.      AUGUST,    1803. 

The  gentlest  Shade  that  walked  Elysian  plains 

IMight  sometimes  covet  dissoluble  chains ; 

Even  for  the  tenants  of  the  zone  that  lies 

Beyond  the  stars,  celestial  Paradise, 

Methinks  't  would  heighten  joy,  to  overleap 

At  win  the  crystal  battlements,  and  peep 

Into  some  other  region,  though  less  fair, 

To  see  how  things  are  made  and  managed  there. 

Change  for  the  worse  might  please,  ijicursion  bold 

Into  the  tracts  of  darkness  and  of  cold  ; 

O'er  Limbo  Lake  with  aery  flight  to  steer, 

And  on  the  verge  of  Chaos  hang  in  fear. 

Such  animation  often  do  I  find, 

Power  in  my  breast,  wings  growing  in  my  mind, 

Then,  when  some  rock  or  hill  is  overpast, 

Terchance  without  one  look  behind  me  ca?t, 

VOL.    III.  1 


2  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Some  barrier  with  which  Nature,  from  the  birtli 
Of  tlimgs,  has  fenced  tliis  fairest  spot  on  earth. 
O  pleasant  transit,  Grasmere  !  to  resign 
Such  happy  fields,  abodes  so  calm  as  thine ; 
Not  like  an  outcjvst  with  himself  at  strife  ; 
The  slave  of  business,  tmie,  or  care  for  life, 
But  moved  by  choice  ;  or,  if  constrained  in  part. 
Yet  still  with  Nature's  freedom  at  the  heart ;  — 
To  cull  contentment  upon  wildest  shores, 
And  luxuries  extract  from  bleakest  moors  ; 
With  prompt  embrace  all  beauty  to  enfold. 
And  havinor  rights  m  all  that  we  behold. 
Then  why  these  hngering  steps  ? — A  bright  a(heu, 
For  a  brief  absence,  proves  that  love  is  true ; 
Ne'er  can  the  way  be  irksome  or  forlorn 
Tliat  winds  into  itself  for  sweet  return. 


n. 

AT  THE   GRAVE  OF  BURNS. 
1803. 

SEVEN  YEARS   AFTER  HIS  DEATH. 

I  SHIVER,  Spirit  fierce  and  bold, 

At  thought  of  what  I  now  behold  : 

As  vapors  breathed  from  dungeons  cold 

Strike  pleasure  dead. 
So  sadness  comes  from  out  the  mould 

Wliere  Burns  is  laid. 


AT    THE    GRAVE    Or    BURNS.  3 

And  have  I  then  thy  bones  so  near, 
And  thou  forbidden  to  appear  ? 
As  if  it  were  thyself  that 's  here, 

I  shrink  with  pain  ; 
And  both  my  wishes  and  my  fear 

Alike  are  vain. 

Off  weight,  —  nor  press  on  weight !  —  away 
Dark  thoughts  !  —  they  came,  but  not  to  stay  ; 
With  chastened  feehngs  would  I  pay 

The  tribute  due 
To  him,  and  aught  that  hides  his  clay 

From  mortal  view. 

Fresh  as  the  flower,  whose  modest  worth 
He  sang,  his  genius  "■  glinted  "  forth. 
Rose  hke  a  star  that,  touching  eai'th. 

For  so  it  seems. 
Doth  glorify  its  humble  birth 

With  matchless  beams. 

The  piercing  eye,  the  thoughtful  brow. 

The  struggUng  heart,  where  be  they  now  ?  — 

FuU  soon  the  Aspirant  of  the  plough. 

The  prompt,  the  brave, 
Slept,  with  the  obscurest,  in  the  low 

And  silent  gi'ave. 

I  mourned  with  thousands,  but  as  one 
More  deeply  grieved,  ibr  lie  was  gone 


I'OKMS    OF    THE    IMAGES^ATIOX. 

Whose  light  I  hailed  when  first  it  shoue. 

And  showed  my  youth 
How  Verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 

On  humble  truth. 

Alas  !  where'er  the  current  tends, 
Regret  pursues  and  with  it  blends,  — 
Huge  CrifFel's  hoary  top  ascends 

By  Skiddaw  seen, — 
Neighbors  we  were,  and  loving  friends 

We  might  have  been  ; 

True  friends,  though  diversely  inclined  ; 
But  heart  with  heart  and  mmd  with  mind, 
Where  the  main  fibres  ai-e  entwined, 

Through  Nature's  skill, 
May  even  by  contraries  be  joined 

More  closely  still. 

The  tear  will  start,  and  let  it  flow ; 

Thou  "poor  Inhabitant  below," 

At  this  dread  moment  —  even  so  — 

Might  we  together 
Have  sat  and  talked  where  gowans  blow, 

Or  on  wild  heather. 

What  ti-easures  would  have  then  been  placed 
Within  my  reach  ;  of  knowledge  graced 
By  fancy  what  a  rich  repast ! 
But  why  go  on  ?  — 


AT    THE    GRAVE    OF    BURNS. 

Oh !  spare  to  sweep,  tliou  mournful  blast, 
His  grave  grass-grown. 

Til  ere,  too,  a  Son,  his  joy  and  pride, 
(Not  three  weeks  past  the  Stripling  died,) 
Lies  gathered  to  his  Father's  side, 

Soul-moving  sight ! 
Yet  one  to  wliich  is  not  denied 

Some  sad  dehght. 


o 


For  he  is  safe,  a  quiet  bed 

Hath  early  found  among  the  dead, 

Harbored  where  none  can  be  misled, 

Wronged,  or  distrest ; 
And  surely  here  it  may  be  said 

That  such  are  blest. 

And  oh  !  for  Thee,  by  pitying  grace 
Checked  ofttimes  in  a  devious  race, 
May  He  who  halloweth  the  place 

Where  Man  is  laid 
Receive  thy  Spirit  m  the  embrace 

For  which  it  prayed  ! 

Sighing,  I  turned  away  ;  but  ere 
Night  fell  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 
IMusic  that  sorrow  comes  not  near,  — 

A  ritual  hymn, 
Chanted  in  love  that  casts  out  fear 

By  Seraphim. 


6  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 

UI. 

THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED  THE  DAY  FOLLOWING,  ON  THE  BANKS  OF   SITH, 
NEAR  THE  POET'S   RESIDENCE. 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow 

That  must  have  followed  when  his  brow 

Was  wreathed  —  "The  Vision"  tells  us  how  — 

With  holly  spray, 
He  faltered,  di-ifted  to  and  fro, 

And  passed  away. 

Well  might  such  thoughts,  deai'  Sister,  throng 
Our  minds  when,  lingering  all  too  long. 
Over  the  grave  of  Burns  we  hung 

In  social  grief,  — 
Indulged  as  if  it  were  a  wrong 

To  seek  rehef. 

But,  leaving  each  unquiet  theme 
Wliere  gentlest  judgments  may  misdeem, 
And  prompt  to  welcome  every  gleam 

Of  good  and  fair. 
Let  us  beside  this  limpid  Stream 

Breathe  hopeful  air. 

Enough  of  sorrow,  wreck,  and  blight ; 
Think  rather  of  those  moments  bright, 
VVlien  to  the  consciousness  of  riglit 
His  course  was  true, 


THOUGHTS. 

When  Wisdom  prospered  in  his  sight 
And  Vii'tue  grew. 

Yes,  freely  let  our  hearts  expand, 
Freely  as  in  youth's  season  bland, 
When,  side  by  side,  his  Book  in  hand, 

We  wont  to  stray, 
Our  pleasure  varjdng  at  command 

Of  each  sweet  Lay. 

How  oft  mspired  must  he  have  trod 
These  pathways,  yon  fai-stretching  road  ! 
There  lurks  his  home  ;  in  that  Abode, 

With  mirth  elate, 
Or  in  his  nobly  pensive  mood, 

The  Rustic  sate. 

Proud  thoughts  that  Image  overawes, 
Before  it  humbly  let  us  pause. 
And  ask  of  Nature,  from  what  cause 

And  by  what  rules 
She  trained  her  Burns  to  win  applause 

That  shames  the  Schools. 

Through  busiest  street  and  lonehest  glen 

Are  felt  the  flashes  of  his  pen  ; 

He  rules  'mid  winter  snows,  and  when 

Bees  fiU  their  hives ; 
Deep  in  the  general  heart  of  men 

His  power  survives. 


(  POEMS    OF    THE    I  .MAOJXATIOX. 

What  need  of  fields  in  some  fax  clime 
Where  Heroes,  Sages,  Bards  sublime, 
And  all  that  fetched  the  flowing  rhyme 

From  genuine  springs, 
Shall  dwell  together  till  old  Time 

Folds  up  his  wmgs  ? 

Sweet  Mercy  !  to  the  gates  of  Heaven 
This  Minstrel  lead,  liis  sins  forgiven  ; 
The  rueful  conflict,  the  heart  riven 

With  vain  endeavor, 
And  memory  of  Earth's  bitter  leaven, 

Efiaced  for  ever. 

But  why  to  Him  confine  the  prayer, 
When  kindred  thoughts  and  yearnings  bear 
On  the  frail  heart  the  purest  share 

With  all  that  live  ?  — 
The  best  of  what  we  do  and  are, 

Just  God,  forgive  1  * 

*  See  note. 


TO    THE    SONS    OF    BURNS.  9 

IV- 

TO   THE   SONS   OF  BURNS, 

AFTER   VISITING  THE   GRAVE   OF  THEIR  FATHER. 

"  The  Poet's  grave  is  in  a  corner  of  the  churchyard.  We 
ooked  at  it  with  melancholy  and  painful  reflections,  repeat- 
ing to  each  other  his  own  verses,  — 

'  Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear,'  &c." 

Extractfrom  the  Journal  of  mif  FdloxD-travdler. 

'Mid  crowded  obelisks  and  urns 

1  sought  the  untimely  grave  of  Burns  ; 

Sons  of  the  Bard,  my  heart  still  mourns 

With  sorrow  true, 
And  more  would  grieve,  but  that  it  turns 

Trembling  to  you  ! 

Through  twilight  shades  of  good  and  ill 

Ye  now  are  panting  up  life's  hill, 

And  more  than  common  strength  and  skill 

Must  ye  display, 
If  ye  would  give  the  better  will 

Its  lawful  sway. 

Hath  Nature  strung  your  nerves  to  bear 
Intemperance  with  less  harm,  beware 
Bui  if  the  Poet's  wit  ye  share,  — 

Like  him  can  speed 
The  social  hour,  —  of  tenfold  care 

There  will  be  need  ; 


10  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

For  honest  men  delight  will  take 
To  spare  your  faihngs  for  his  sake, 
Will  flatter  you,  —  and  fool  and  rake 

Your  steps  pursue ; 
And  of  your  Father's  name  will  make 

A  siuu'e  for  you. 

Fai'  from  their  noisy  haunts  retire, 
And  add  your  voices  to  the  choir 
That  sanctify  the  cottage  fire 

With  service  meet; 
There  seek  the  genius  of  your  Sire, 

His  spirit  greet ; 

Or  where,  'mid  "  lonely  heights  and  howa," 
He  paid  to  Nature  tuneful  vows  ; 
Or  wiped  his  honorable  brows 

Bedewed  with  toil, 
While  reapers  strove,  or  busy  ploughs 

Upturned  the  soil ; 

His  judgment  with  benignant  ray 
Shall  guide,  his  fancy  cheer,  your  way ; 
But  ne'er  to  a  seductive  lay 

Let  faith  be  given  ; 
Nor  deem  that  "  light  which  leads  astray 

Is  light  from  Heaven." 


*o* 


Let  no  mean  hope  your  souls  enslave  ; 
Be  independent,  generous,  brave  ; 


ELLEN    IRWLV.  U 


Your  Fatliar  such  example  gave, 
Aud  such  revere ; 

But  be  admonished  by  his  grave, 
Aud  think,  and  fear  ! 


V. 

ELLEN  IRWIN: 

OR,    TilE    BRAES    OP    KIRTLE.* 

Fair  Ellen  L*win,  when  she  sat 
Upon  the  braes  of  Kirtle, 
Was  lovely  as  a  Grecian  maid 
i^  domed  with  wreaths  of  myrtle  ; 
Young  Adam  Bruce  beside  her  lay, 
And  there  did  they  beguile  the  day 
With  love  and  gentle  speeches. 
Beneath  the  budding  beeches. 

From  many  knights  and  many  squires 
The  Bruce  had  been  selected  ; 
And  Gordon,  fairest  of  them  all, 
By  Ellen  was  rejected. 
Sad  tidings  to  that  noble  Youth  ! 
For  it  may  be  proclaimed  with  truth, 

*  The  Kirtle  is  a  river  in  the  southern  part  of  Scotland,  on 
the  banks  of  whicli  tlie  events  liere  related  took  place. 


12  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

If  Bruce  hath  loved  smcerely, 
That  Gordon  loves  as  dearly. 

But  what  ai'e  Gordon's  form  and  face, 
His  shattered  hopes  and  crosses, 
To  them,  'mid  Kirtle's  pleasant  braes, 
Rechned  on  flowers  and  mosses  ? 
Alas  that  ever  he  was  born  ! 
The  Gordon,  couched  behind  a  thorn, 
Sees  them  and  their  caressing  ; 
Beholds  them  blest  and  blessing. 

Proud  Gordon,  maddened  by  the  thoughts 
That  through  his  brain  are  travelling, 
Rushed  forth,  and  at  the  heart  of  Bruce 
He  launched  a  deadly  javelin  ! 
Fair  Ellen  saw  it  as  it  came, 
And,  starting  up  to  meet  the  same, 
Did  with  her  body  cover 
The  Youth,  her  chosen  lover. 

And,  falling  into  Bruce's  arms. 
Thus  died  the  beauteous  Ellen, 
Thus  from  the  heart  of  her  True-love 
The  mortal  spear  repelling. 
And  Bruce,  as  soon  as  he  had  slain 
The  Gordon,  sailed  away  to  Spain, 
And  fought  with  rage  incessant 
Against  the  Moorish  crescent. 


TO    A    HIGHLAND    GIUL.  13 

But  many  days,  and  many  months, 
And  many  years  ensuing, 
This  wretched  Knight  did  vainly  seek 
The  death  that  he  was  wooing. 
So,  coming  his  last  help  to  crave, 
Heart-broken,  upon  Ellen's  grave 
His  body  he  extended. 
And  there  his  sorrow  ended. 

Now  ye,  who  wilUngly  have  heard 
The  tale  I  have  been  telling, 
May  in  Kirkonnel  churchyard  view 
The  grave  of  lovely  EUen  : 
By  Ellen's  side  the  Bruce  is  laid  ; 
And,  for  the  stone  upon  his  head. 
May  no  rude  hand  deface  it. 
And  its  forlorn  ^ic  jacet ! 


VI. 

TO  A  HIGHLAND   GIRL. 
(At  Inversneyde,  upon  Loch  Lomond.) 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  these  gray  rocks  ;  that  household  lawn  ; 

Those  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn  ; 


14  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 
A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake  ; 
This  little  bay  ;  a  quiet  road 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  Abode,  — 
In  truth  together  do  ye  seem 
Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream  ; 
Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 
But,  O  fair  Creature  !  in  the  light 
Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright, 
I  bless  thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 
I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart ; 
God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years  ! 
Thee  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers  ; 
And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

"With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away  : 
For  never  saw  I  mien,  or  face, 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  homebred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scattered,  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer  : 
A  flice  with  gladness  overspread ! 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred ! 


TO    A    HIGHLAND    GIRL.  13 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech  : 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind. 
Seen  bu'ds  of  tempest-loving  kind 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

"What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cuU 
For  thee  Avho  art  so  beautiful  ? 
O  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ; 
Adopt  your  homely  w^ays,  and  dress, 
A  Shepherd,  thou  a  Shepherdess  ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality  : 
Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 
Of  the  wild  sea  ;  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 
Though  but  of  common  neighborhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 
Thy  elder  Brother  I  would  be, 
Thy  Father,  —  anything  to  thee  ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 


Ifi  POEMS    OF    TPIE    IMAGINATION. 

Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 

I  bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 

Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes : 

Then,  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir  ? 

I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her ; 

To  give  new  pleasui'e  like  the  past, 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 

Sweet  Highland  Girl !  from  tliee  to  part ; 

For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold. 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 

And  thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all ! 


VII. 

GLEN-ALMAIN : 
OR,    THE    NARROW    GLEN. 

Tn  this  still  place,  remote  from  men, 
Sleeps  Ossian,  in  the  narrow  glen  ; 
In  this  still  place,  where  murmurs  on 
But  one  meek  streamlet,  only  one : 
He  sang  of  battles,  and  the  breath 
Of  stormy  war,  and  violent  death ; 


GLEN-AL:iIAi:-,'.  17 

Aiicl  should,  metliinks,  when  all  was  past, 

Have  rightfully  been  laid'at  last 

Where  rocks  were  rudely  heaped,  and  rent 

As  by  a  spu-it  turbulent; 

^Vhere  sights  were  rough  and  sounds  were  wilil, 

And  everything  unreconciled ; 

In  some  complaining,  dim  retreat, 

For  fear  and  melancholy  meet ; 

But  this  is  calm  ;  there  cannot  be 

A  more  entire  tranquillity. 

Does  then  the  Bard  sleep  here  indeed  ? 
Or  is  it  but  a  groundless  creed  ? 
What  matters  it?  —  I  blame  them  not 
Whose  Fancy  in  this  lonely  Spot 
Was  moved ;  and  in  such  way  expressed 
Their  notion  of  its  perfect  rest. 
A  convent,  even  a  hermit's  cell, 
Would  break  the  silence  of  this  Dell : 
It  is  not  quiet,  it  is  not  ease ; 
But  something  deeper  far  than  theses 
The  separation  that  is  here 
Is  of  the  grave  ;  and  of  austere 
Yet  happy  feelings  of  the  dead : 
And  therefore  was  it  rightly  said 
That  Ossian,  last  of  all  his  race  I 
Lies  buried  in  this  lonely  place. 

VOL.  ni.  2 


18  POEMS    OK    THE   IMAGINATION. 

Till. 

STEPPING   WESTWARD. 

Wlule  my  Fellow-traveller  and  I  were  walking  by  the  side 
of  Loch  Ketterine,  one  fine  evening  after  sunset,  in  our  road 
to  a  Hut  where,  in  the  course  of  our  Tour,  we  had  been  hos- 
pitably entertained  some  weeks  before,  we  met,  in  one  of  the 
loneliest  parts  of  that  sohtary  region,  two  well-dressed  Women, 
one  of  whom  said  to  us,  by  way  of  gi-eeting,  "  What,  you  ara 
stepping  westward?  " 

"  Wha  t,  you  are  stepping  westward  ?  "  —  "  Yea." 
—  'T  would  be  a  wildish  destiny, 
If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 
In  a  strange  Land,  and  far  from  home, 
Were  in  this  place  the  guests  of  Chance : 
Yet  whf)  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 
Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 
With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on  ? 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold ; 

]*)eliind,  all  gloomy  to  behold  ; 

And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 

A  kind  oi' heavenly  destiny: 

I  liked  the  greeting ;  't  was  a  sound 

Of  something  without  place  or  bound ; 

And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 

'J'o  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  wlio  spake 
Was  walking  by  her  native  lake : 


THE    SOLITAKY    REAPER.  19 

The  salutation  liad  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy : 

Its  power  was  felt ;  and  while  my  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  Sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  inwrought 

A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 

Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 

Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 


IX. 

THE   SOLITARY  REAPER. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  soUtary  Highland  Lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 
O  Usten !  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt. 
Among  Arabian  sands : 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Amonof  the  farthest  Hebrides. 


o 


20  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  — • 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  tilings, 

And  battles  long  ago : 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay. 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending ; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ;  — 
I  Ustened,  motionless  and  still ; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


X. 

ADDRESS 

TO  KILCHURN  CASTLE,  UPON  LOCH  AWE. 

"  From  the  top  of  the  hill  a  most  impressive  scene  opened 
upon  our  view,  —  a  mined  Castle  on  an  Island  (for  an  Island 
the  flood  had  made  it)  at  some  distance  from  the  sliore, 
backed  by  a  Cove  of  the  Jlonntain  Craachan,  down  which 
name  a  foaming  stream.  Tlie  Castle  occupied  every  foot  of 
the  Island  that  was  visible  to  us,  appearing  to  rise  out  of  the 
water,  -  -  mists  rested  upon  the  mountain-side,  with  spots  of 


ADDRESS    TO    KILCHURN    CASTLE.  21 

»un?hine;  there  was  a  mild  desolation  in  the  low  grounds,  a 
Bolemn  grandeur  in  the  mountains,  and  the  Castle  was  wild, 
yet  stately,  —  not  dismantled  of  turrets,  nor  the  walls  broken 
down,  though  obviously  a  ruin."  —  Extract  from  the  Journal 
of  my  Companion. 

Child  of  loucl-tliroated  War!  the  mountain  Stream 

Roars  in  thy  hearing ;  but  thy  hour  of  rest 

Is  come,  and  thou  art  silent  in  thy  age ; 

Save  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  and  sounds  are 

caught 
Ambiguous,  neither  wholly  thine  nor  theirs. 
O  there  is  life  that  breathes  not !    Powers  there  are 
That  touch  each  other  to  the  quick,  in  modes 
Which  the  gross  world  no  sense  hath  to  perceive, 
No  soul  to  dream  of.     What  art  thou,  from  care 
Cast  off,  abandoned  by  thy  rugged  Sire, 
Nor  b\-  soft  Peace  adopted ;  though,  in  place 
And  in  dimension,  such  that  thou  might'st  seem 
But  a  mere  footstool  to  yon  sovereign  Lord, 
Huge  Cruachan,  (a  thing  that  meaner  hills 
IMicht  crush,  nor  know  that  it  had  suffered  harm,) 
Yet  he,  not  loth,  in  favor  of  thy  claims 
To  reverence,  suspends  his  own ;  submitting 
All  that  the  God  of  Nature  hath  conferred, 
All  that  he  holds  in  common  with  the  stars, 
To  the  memorial  majesty  of  Time 
Impersonated  in  thy  cahn  decay  ! 
Take,  then,  thy  seat.  Vicegerent  unreproved ! 
Now,  while  a  farewell  gleam  of  evening  light 
li  fondly  hngering  on  thy  shattered  front, 


22  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Do  thou,  in  turn,  be  paramount ;  and  rule 

Over  the  pomp  and  beauty  of  a  scene 

Whose  mountams,  torrents,  lake,  and  woods  unite 

To  pay  thee  homage  ;  and  with  these  are  joined, 

In  wiUing  admiration  and  respect. 

Two  Hearts,  which  in  thy  presence  might  be  called 

Youthful  as  Spring.  —  Shade  of  deptuted  Power, 

Skeleton  of  unfleshed  humanity, 

The  chi'onicle  were  welcome  that  should  call 

Into  the  compass  of  distinct  I'egard 

Tlie  toils  and  struggles  of  thy  infant  years ! 

Yon  foamhig  flood  seems  motionless  as  ice ; 

Its  tUzzy  turbulence  eludes  the  eye, 

Frozen  by  distance ;  so,  majestic  Pile, 

To  the  perception  of  this  Age,  appear 

Thy  fierce  beginnings,  softened  and  subdued 

And  quieted  in  character,  —  the  strife, 

The  pride,  the  fury  uncontrollable. 

Lost  on  the  aerial  heights  of  the  Crusades  !  * 

*  The  ti'adition  is,  that  the  Castle  was  built  by  a  Ltuiy 
iariiig  the  absence  of  her  Lord  in  Palestine. 


ROB  rot's  grave.  23 

XI. 

ROB   ROY'S   GRAVE. 

The  history  of  Rob  Roy  is  sufficiently  known;  his  grave  is 
aear  the  head  of  Loch  Ketterine,  in  one  of  those  small  pinfold- 
ike  burial-grounds,  of  neglected  and  desolate  appearance 
which  the  traveller  meets  with  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland. 

A  FAMOUS  man  is  Robin  Hood, 

The  English  ballad-singer's  joy  ! 

And  Scotland  has  a  tliief  as  good, 

An  outlaw  of  as  daring  mood ; 

She  has  her  brave  Rob  Roy  ! 

Then  clear  the  weeds  from  off  his  Grave, 

And  let  us  chant  a  passing  stave. 

In  honor  of  that  Hero  brave  ! 

Heaven  gave  Rob  Roy  a  dauntless  heart 
And  wondrous  length  and  strength  of  una : 
Nor  craved  he  more  (o  quell  his  foes, 
Or  keep  his  friends  from  harm. 

Yet  Avas  Rob  Roy  as  wise  as  brave ; 
Forgive  me  if  the  phrase  be  strong;  — 
A  Poet  worthy  of  Rob  Roy 
Must  scorn  a  timid  song. 

Say,  then,  that  he  was  wise  as  brave ; 
As  wise  in  thought  as  bold  in  deed : 
For  in  the  principles  of  things 
He  sought  his  moral  creed. 


24  POEMS   OF  thp:   IM4.GIXATI0X. 

Said  generous  Rob,  "  What  need  of  books  ? 
Burn  all  the  statutes  and  their  shelves : 
They  stir  us  up  against  our  kind  ; 
And  worse,  against  ourselves. 

"  We  have  a  passion,  —  make  a  law, 
Too  false  to  guide  us  or  control ! 
And  for  the  law  itself  we  fight 
In  bitterness  of  soul. 

"  And,  puzzled,  blinded  thus,  we  lose 
Distinctions  that  are  plain  and  few : 
These  find  I  graven  on  my  iit-art : 
That  tells  me  what  to  do. 

"  The  creatures  see  of  flood  and  field, 
And  those  that  travel  on  the  wind ! 
With  them  no  strife  can  last ;  they  live 
In  peace,  and  peace  of  mind. 

"  For  why? — because  the  good  old  rule 
Sufiiceth  them,  the  simple  plan. 
That  they  should  take  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can. 

"  A  lesson  that  is  (juickly  learned, 
A  signal  this  which  all  can  see  ! 
Thus  nothing  here  provokes  the  strong 
I'o  wanton  cruelty. 


ROB    ROl's    GRAVE.  25 

"  All  freakishness  of  mind  is  checked ; 
He  tamed,  who  foolishly  aspires  ; 
While  to  the  measure  of  his  might 


O' 


Each  fashions  his  desires. 


"  All  kinds,  and  creatures,  stand  and  fall 
By  strength  of  prowess  or  of  wit : 
'T  is  God's  appointment  who  must  sway. 
And  who  is  to  submit. 

"  Since,  then,  the  rule  of  right  is  plain, 
And  longest  life  is  but  a  day ; 
To  have  my  ends,  maintain  my  rights, 
I  '11  take  the  shortest  way." 

And  thus  among  these  rocks  he  lived. 
Through  summer  heat  and  winter  snow 
The  Eagle,  he  was  loi'd  above, 
And  Rob  was  lord  below. 

So  was  it,  —  would,  at  least,  have  been 
But  through  untowardness  of  fiite ; 
For  Polity  was  then  too  strong,  — 
He  came  an  age  too  late ; 

Or  shall  we  say  an  age  too  soon? 
For,  were  the  bold  Man  hving  now. 
Mow  might  he  flourish  in  his  pride, 
WiMi  buds  on  every  bough  ! 


2G  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Then  rents  and  factors,  rights  of  chase, 
Sheriffs,  and  lairds  and  their  domains, 
Would  all  have  seemed  but  paltry  tilings, 
Not  worth  a  moment's  pains. 

Rob  Roy  had  never  lingered  here. 
To  these  few  meagre  Vales  confined  ; 
But  thought  how  Avide  the  world,  the  tiniefl 
How  fairly  to  his  mind  ! 

And  to  his  Sword  he  would  have  said, 
"  Do  thou  my  sovereign  will  enact 
From  land  to  land  through  half  the  earth  ! 
Judjre  thou  of  law  and  fact ! 


"'o'- 


*'  'T  is  fit  that  we  should  do  our  part. 
Becoming  that  mankind  shotdd  learn 
That  we  are  not  to  be  surpassed 
In  fatherly  concern. 

"  Of  old  things  all  are  over  old, 
Of  good  things  none  are  good  enough  ;  - 
We  '11  show  that  we  can  help  to  frame 
A  world  of  other  stuff. 

"  T,  too,  Avill  have  my  kings,  that  take 
l^^'rom  me  the  sign  of  life  and  death : 
Kingdoms  shall  shift  about,  like  clouds, 
Obedient  to  my  breath." 


ROB  roy's  grave.  27 

And  if  the  word  had  been  fulfilled, 
As  inight  have  been,  then,  thought  of  joy ! 
France  would  have  had  her  present  Boast, 
And  we  our  own  Rob  Roy  ! 

0,  say  not  so  !  compare  them  not ; 
I  would  not  wrong  thee.  Champion  brave ! 
Would  wrong  thee  nowhere  ;  least  of  all 
Here  standmg  by  thy  grave. 

For  thou,  although  with  some  wild  thoughts, 
Wild  Chieftain  of  a  savage  Clan  ! 
Hadst  this  to  boast  of:  thou  didst  love 
The  liberty  of  man. 

And  had  it  been  thy  lot  to  hve 
With  us  who  now  behold  the  hght. 
Thou  wouldst  have  nobly  stirred  thyself, 
And  battled  for  the  Right. 

For  thou  wert  still  the  poor  man's  stay, 
Ihe  poor  man's  heart,  the  poor  man's  liand  ; 
And  all  the  oppressed,  who  wanted  strength. 
Had  thine  at  their  command. 

Bear  witness  many  a  pensive  sigh 
Of  thoughtful  Herdsman  when  he  stray* 
Alone  upon  Loch  Vool's  heights. 
And  by  Loch  Lomond's  braes. 


28  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Aiid,  far  and  near,  through  vale  and  hill, 
Are  faces  that  attest  the  same  ; 
The  proud  heart  flashing  through  the  eyes, 
At  sound  of  Rob  Roy's  name. 


XII. 

SONNET. 

COMPOSED   AT  CASTLE. 

Degenerate  Douglas!  0  the  unworthy  Lord  ! 
Wliom  mere  despite  of  heart  could  so  for  please. 
And  love  of  havoc,  (for  with  such  disease 
Fame  taxes  him,)  that  he  could  send  foi-th  word 
To  level  with  the  dust  a  noble  horde, 
A  brotherhood  of  venerable  Trees, 
Leaving  an  ancient  dome,  and  towers  like  these, 
Beggared  and  outraged  !  —  Many  hearts  deplorec' 
The  fate  of  those  old  Trees  ;  and  oft  with  pain 
The  traveller,  at  this  day,  will  stop  and  gaze 
On  wrongs,  which  Nature  scarcely  seems  to  lieed 
For  sheltered  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays, 
A.nd  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle  Tweed, 
\nd  the  green,  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 


YAKROW    UNVISITED.  29 

XIII. 
YARROW   UNVISITED. 

See  the  various  Poems  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  upou  'Jos 
kanks  of  the  Yarrow ;  iii  particular,  the  exquisite  Ballad  of 
Hamilton  beginning, 

"  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonuy  Bride, 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  Marrow! " 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled ; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled ; 
And  when  we  cauie  to  Clovenford, 
Then  said  my  '■'■  winsome  Marrow" 
"  Wliate'er  betide,  we  '11  turn  aside. 
And  see  the  braes  of  Yarrow." 

"Let  Yarrow  h\k,frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  't  is  their  own  : 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling  ! 

On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  ! 

But  we  will  downward  witli  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

"  There 's  Galla  "Water,  Leader  Haughs, 
Both  lying  right  before  us ; 


30  POEilS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

.Ajid  Dryborough,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 
The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus ; 
There  's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 
Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow: 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  YaiTOw  ? 

"  What 's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare, 

That  ghdes  the  dark  hills  under  ? 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere, 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 

Strange  words  they  seemed  of  slight  and  scorn ; 

My  True-love  sighed  for  sorrow  ; 

And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

"  O,  green,"  said  I,  "  are  Yarrow's  holms, 
And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  ! 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  tlie  rock,* 
But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 
We  'U  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

■■'  Let  beeves  and  homel)red  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow  ; 

*  See  Hamilton's  Ballad  as  above. 


YARROW    UNVI3ITED.  31 

Tlie  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
I'Moat  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 
We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow ; 
Enough,  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There  's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ? 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own ; 
Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it  ? 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past. 
We  '11  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow  ! 
For  when  we  're  there,  although  'i  is  iair, 
'T  will  be  another  Yarrow  ! 

"  K  Care  with  freezing  years  should  comCj 
And  wandering  seem  but  folly,  — 
Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 
And  yet  be  melancholy,  — 
Should  Ufe  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 
'T  will  soothe  us  m  our  sorrow, 
'Ihat  earth  has  something  yet  to  show. 
The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  ! " 


32  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XIV. 

SONNET. 

IN  THE  PASS  OF  KILLICRANKY, 

An  invasion  being  expected,  October,  1803. 

Six  thousand  veterans,  practised  in  war's  game, 
Tried  men,  at  Killicranky  were  arrayed 
Against  an  equal  host  that  wore  tlie  plaid, 
Shepherds    and   herdsmen.  —  Like   a   whirlwind 

came 
The  Higlilanders,  the  slaughter  spread  like  fiamL-; 
And  Garry,  tliundering  down  his  mountain-road. 
Was  stopped,  and  could  not  breathe  beneath  the 

load 
Of  the  dead  bodies.  —  'T  was  a  day  of  shame 
For  them  whom  precept  and  the  pedantry 
Of  cold,  mechanic  battle  do  enslave. 
O  for  a  single  liour  of  that  Dundee, 
Who  on  that  day  the  word  of  onset  gave  ! 
Like  conquest  would  tlie  Men  of  England  see ; 
A.nd  her  Foes  find  a  like  inglorious  grave. 


THE    MATRON    OF   JEDBOROUGH.  o3 


XV. 


THE   MATRON   OF  JEPBOROUGH  AND   HER 
HUSBAND. 

At  Jedborough,  my  companion  and  I  went  into  privato 
lod^ngs  for  a  few  days ;  and  the  following  Verses  were  called 
forth  by  the  character  and  domestic  situation  of  our  Hostess. 

Age  !  twine  thy  brows  with  fresh  spring  floweis, 

And  call  a  train  of  laughing  Hours; 

And  bid  them  dance,  and  bid  them  sing ; 

And  thou,  too,  mingle  in  the  ring ! 

Take  to  thy  heart  a  new  delight ; 

If  not,  make  merry  in  despite 

That  there  is  One  who  scorns  thy  power :  — • 

But  dance  !  for  under  Jedborough  Tower 

A  Matron  dwells,  who,  though  she  bears 

The  weight  of  moi-e  tlian  seventy  years. 

Lives  in  the  hght  of  youthful  glee. 

And  she  will  dance  and  sing  with  thcp.. 

Nay  !  start  not  at  that  Figure  —  there  ! 
Him  who  is  rooted  to  his  chair ! 
Look  at  him,  —  look  again  !  for  he 
Hath  long  been  of  thy  family. 
With  legs  that  move  not,  if  they  can, 
And  useless  arms,  a  trunk  of  man, 
He  sits,  and  with  a  vacant  eje ; 
A.  sight  to  make  a  stranger  sigh  ! 

*'OL.  lu.  3 


34  P0K5IS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Deaf,  drooping,  that  is  now  his  doom; 
His  world  is  in  tliis  single  room  : 
Is  this  a  place  for  mirthful  cheer  ? 
Can  merry-making  enter  here  ? 

The  joyous  "Woman  is  the  jMat  6 
Of  him  in  that  forlorn  estate  ! 
He  breathes  a  subterraneous  damp; 
]3ut  bright  as  Vesper  shines  Iier  lamp : 
He  is  as  mute  as  Jedborough  Tower  ; 
She  jocund  as  it  was  of  yore, 
"With  all  its  bravery  on ;  in  times 
When  all  alive  with  merry  chimes, 
Upon  a  sun-bright  morn  of  IMay, 
It  roused  the  Vale  to  holiday. 

I  praise  thee.  Matron  !  and  thy  due 
Is  praise,  heroic  praise,  and  ti-ue ! 
With  admiration  I  behold 
Thy  gladness  unsubdued  and  bold : 
Thy  looks,  thy  gestures,  all  present 
The  picture  of  a  life  well  spent : 
This  do  I  see ;  and  something  more ; 
A  strength  unthought  of  heretofore  : 
Delighted  am  I  for  thy  sake  ; 
And  yet  a  higher  joy  partake  : 
Our  Human-nature  throws  away 
Its  second  twilight,  and  looks  gay ; 
A  land  of  promise  and  of  pride 
Unfbl(hiig;  v.'ide  as  life  is  wide. 


THE    MATROX    OF    JEDBOROUGrH.  3') 

An  !  see  her  helpless  Charge  !  hiclosed 
Witliin  himself"  as  seems,  composed  ; 
To  fear  of  loss,  and  hope  of  gain, 
The  strife  of  happiness  and  pain, 
Utterly  dead !  yet  m  the  guise 
Of  httle  mfants,  wheii  their  eyes 
Be2;in  to  follow  to  and  fro 
The  persons  that  before  them  go. 
He  tracks  her  motions,  quick  or  slow. 
Her  buoyant  spirit  can  prevail 
Where  common  cheerfulness  would  fail ; 
She  strikes  upon  him  with  the  heat 
Of  July  suns  ;  he  feels  it  sweet ; 
An  animal  delight,  though  dim  ! 
'T  is  all  that  no^v  remains  for  him  ! 

The  more  I  looked,  T.  wondered  more,  — 
And,  while  I  scanned  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Some  inward  trouble  suddenly 
Broke  from  the  Matron's  strong  black  exc  — 
A  remnant  of  uneasy  light, 
A  flash  of  something  over-bright ! 
Nor  long  this  mystery  did  detain 
My  thoughts  ;  —  she  told  in  pensive  stram 
That  she  had  borne  a  lieavy  yoke, 
lieen  stricken  by  a  twofold  stroke  : 
111  health  of  body  ;  and  had  pined 
Beneath  worse  ailments  of  the  mind. 

So  be  it!  —  but  let  pj-aise  ascend 
To  Him  who  is  our  lord  aud  friend ! 


56  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Who  from  disease  and  suffering 
Hath  called  for  thee  a  second  spring ; 
Repaid  thee  for  that  sore  distress 
Bj  no  untimely  joyousness ; 
Which  makes  of  thine  a  blissful  state, 
And  cheers  thy  mehmcholy  Mate  ! 


XVI. 

Flt,  some  kind  Harbinger,  to  Grasmere  dale  ! 
Say  that  we  come,  and  come  by  this  day's  light ; 
Fly  upon  swiftest  wing  round  Held  and  hijight, 
But  chiefly  let  one  Cottage  hear  the  tale ; 
There  let  a  mystery  of  joy  prevail, 
The  kitten  frohc,  like  a  gamesome  sprite, 
And  Rover  whine,  as  at  a  second  sight 
Of  near-approaching  good  that  shall  not  fail : 
And  from  that  infant's  face  let  joy  appear ; 
Yea,  let  our  Mary's  one  companion  child  — 
That  hath  her  six  weeks'  solitude  beguiled 
With  intimations  manifold  and  dear, 
While  we  have  wandered  over  wood  and  wild  — 
Smile  on  liis  Mother  now  with  bolder  cheer. 


THE    BLIND    HIGHLAND    BOY.  87 

XVII. 
THE   BLES^D   HIGHLAND  BOV. 

PAl-K    TOLD    BY    THE     FIRESIDE,    AFTER    RETU«\ING    TO 
THE    VALE    OF    GRASMEKE. 

No\V^  we  are  tired  of  boisterous  joy, 
Have  romped  enough,  my  little  Boy ! 
Jjme  hangs  her  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  you  shall  bring  your  stool  and  rest ; 
This  corner  is  your  own. 

There  !  take  your  seat,  and  let  me  see 
That  you  can  Usten  quietly  : 
And,  as  I  promised,  I  will  tell 
That  stran<2;e  adventure  which  befell 
A  poor  bhnd  Higliland  Boy. 

A  Highland  Boy !  —  why  call  him  so  ? 
Because,  my  Darhngs,  ye  must  know 
That,  under  hills  which  rise  like  towers, 
Far  liigher  hills  than  these  of  ours  ! 
He  from  liis  birth  had  lived. 

He  ne'er  had  seen  one  earthly  sight,  — 
The  sun,  the  day ;  the  stars,  the  night ; 
Or  tree,  or  butterfly,  or  flower. 
Or  fish  in  stream,  or  bird  in  bower, 
Or  woman,  man,  or  child. 


58  i'OEMS    OF    THE    UIAGIXATIOX. 

And  yet  he  neither  droopeJ  nor  pined, 
Nor  had  a  melancholy  mind  ; 
For  God  took  pity  on  the  Boy, 
And  was  his  friend  ;  and  gave  him  joy 
Of  which  we  nothing  know 

His  Mother,  too,  no  doubt,  above 
Her  other  children  him  did  love : 
For  was  she  here,  or  was  she  there, 
She  thought  of  him  with  constant  care. 
And  more  than  mother's  love. 

And  proud  she  was  of  heart,  when  clad 
In  crimson  stockings,  tartan  plaid, 
And  bonnet  with  a  feather  gay, 
To  Kirk  he  on  the  Sabbath-day 
Went  hand  in  hand  with  her. 

A  dog,  too,  had  he  ;  not  for  need, 
But  one  to  play  with  and  to  feed ; 
Wliich  would  have  led  him,  if  bereft 
Of  company  or  friends,  and  left; 
Without  a  better  ffuide. 


o^ 


And  then  the  bagpipes  he  could  blow,  — 
And  thus  from  house  to  house?  would  go , 
And  all  were  pleased  to  hear  and  see, 
For  none  made  sweeter  melody 
Than  did  the  poor  blind  Boy. 


THE    BLIND    HIGHLAND    BOY.  39 

Yet  he  liad  many  a  restless  dream  ; 
Both  when  he  heard  the  eagles  scream, 
And  when  he  heard  the  torrents  I'oar, 
And  heard  the  water  beat  the  shore 
Near  wliich  then*  cottage  stood. 

Beside  a  lake  their  cottage  stood, 
N'jt  small,  like  oui-s,  a  peaceful  flood ; 
Pui  one  of  mighty  size,  and  sti'ange  ; 
Diat,  rough  or  smooth,  is  full  of  change, 
And  stirring  m  its  bed. 

For  to  this  lake,  by  night  and  day. 
The  great  Sea-water  finds  its  way. 
Through  long,  long  windings  of  the  liilifl, 
And  di'inks  up  all  the  pretty  rills 
And  rivers  laro;e  and  strong  : 

Then  hui-ries  back  the  road  it  came,  — 
Returns,  on  errand  stUl  the  same  ; 
This  did  it  when  the  eai'th  was  new ; 
And  this  for  evermore  will  do. 
As  lono;  as  earth  shall  last. 


o 


And,  wth  the  coming  of  the  tide, 
Come  boats  and  ships  that  safely  ride 
Between  the  woods  and  lofty  rocks ; 
And  to  the  shepherds  with  their  flocks 
Bring  tales  of  distant  huids. 


40  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATIOX. 

And  of  those  tales,  wliate'er  they  were, 
The  blii  d  Boy  always  had  his  share ; 
Whether  of  mighty  towns,  or  vales 
With  warmer  suns  and  softer  gales, 
Or  wonders  of  the  Deep. 

Yet  more  it  pleased  him,  more  it  stirred. 
When  from  the  water-side  he  heard 
The  shouting,  and  the  jolly  cheers  ; 
The  bustle  of  the  mariners 
Li  stillness  or  in  storm. 

But  what  do  his  desires  avail  ? 
For  he  must  never  handle  sail ; 
Nor  mount  the  mast,  nor  row,  nor  iloat 
In  sailor's  ship,  or  fisher's  boat, 
Upon  the  rocking  waves. 

His  Mother  often  tliought,  and  said, 
What  sin  would  be  upon  her  head 
If  she  should  suffer  this  :  "  My  Son, 
Whate'er  you  do,  leave  this  undone ; 
The  danger  is  so  gi-eat." 

Thus  lived  he  by  Loch  Leven's  side, 
Still  sounding  with  the  sounding  tide. 
And  heard  the  billows  leap  and  danca, 
Without  a  shadow  of  mischance, 
Till  he  was  ten  years  old. 


THE   BLIND    HIGHLAND    BOY.  41 

WTien  one  day  (and  now  mark  me  well, 
Ye  soon  shall  know  how  this  befell) 
He  in  a  vessel  of  his  own, 
On  the  swift  flood  is  hurrying  down, 
Down  to  the  mighty  Sea. 

Li  such  a  vessel  never  more 
May  human  creature  leave  the  shore  ! 
If  this  or  that  way  he  should  stir, 
Woe  to  the  poor  blind  Mariner ! 
For  death  will  be  his  doom. 

But  say  what  bears  him  ?  —  Ye  have  seen 
The  Indian's  bow,  his  arrows  keen, 
Rare  beasts,  and  birds  with  plumage  bright ; 
Gifts  which,  for  wonder  or  delight, 
Ai'e  brought  in  ships  from  far. 

Such  gifts  had  those  seafaring  men 
Spread  round  that  haven  in  the  glen  ; 
Each  hut,  perchance,  might  have  its  own ; 
And  to  the  Boy  they  were  all  known,  — 
He  knew  and  prized  them  all. 

The  rarest  wa"s  a  Turtle-sheU 
Which  he,  poor  child,  had  studied  well ; 
A  shell  of  ample  size,  and  light 
As  the  peai"ly  car  of  Amphitrite, 
That  sportive  dolphins  di'ew. 


42  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And,  as  a  Coracle  that  braves 
On  Vaga's  breast  the  fretful  waves, 
This  shell  upon  the  deep  would  swim, 
And  gaily  Hft  its  fearless  brim 
Above  the  tossing  surge. 

And  this  the  little  blind  Boy  knew : 
And  he  a  story  strange,  yet  true, 
Had  heard,  how  in  a  shell  like  this 
An  English  Boy,  O  thought  of  bliss  ! 
Had  stoutly  launched  from  shore ; 

Launched  from  the  margin  of  a  bay 
Among  the  Indian  isles,  where  lay 
His  father's  ship,  and  had  sailed  far, 
To  join  that  gallant  ship  of  war, 
In  his  delightful  shell. 

Our  Highland  Boy  oft  visited 
The  house  that  held  this  ])rize;  and,  led 
By  choice  or  chance,  did  thither  come 
One  day  when  no  one  was  at  home, 
And  found  the  door  unbai'red. 

While  there  he  sat,  alone  and  blind, 
That  story  flashed  upon  his  mind  ;  — 
A  bold  thought  roused  him,  and  he  took 
The  shell  from  out  its  secret  nook. 
And  bore  it  on  his  head. 


THE    BLIND    HIGHLAND    BOY.  43 

He  launched  his  vessel,  —  and  in  pride 
Of  spirit,  from  Loch  Leven's  side, 
Stepped  into  it,  —  his  thoughts  all  free 
As  the  light  breezes  that  with  glee 

Sang  through  the  adventurer's  hair. 

Awhile  he  stood  upon  his  feet ; 
He  felt  the  motion,  —  took  his  seat ; 
StiU  better  pleased,  as  more  and  more 
The  tide  retreated  from  the  shore, 
And  sucked,  and  sucked  him  in. 

And  there  he  is  in  face  of  Heaven. 
How  rapidly  the  Child  is  driven  ! 
The  fourth  part  of  a  mile,  I  ween, 
He  thus  had  gone,  ere  he  was  seen    . 
By  any  human  eye. 

But  when  he  was  first  seen,  0  me  ! 
"What  shrieking  and  what  misery ! 
For  many  saw  ;  among  the  rest 
His  Mother,  she  who  loved  him  best, 
She  saw  her  poor  bhnd  Boy. 

But  for  the  Child,  the  sightless  Boy, 
It  is  the  triumph  of  his  joy  ! 
The  bravest  traveller  in  balloon, 
Mounting  as  if  to  reach  the  moon, 
Was  never  half  so  blessed. 


44  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

And  let  liim,  let  him  go  liis  way, 
Alone,  and  innocent,  and  gay  ! 
For,  if  good  Angels  love  to  wait 
On  the  foi-lox-n  unfortunate, 

This  Child  will  take  no  harm. 

But  now  the  passionate  lament, 
"Wliich  from  the  crowd  on  shore  was  sent, 
The  cries  which  broke  from  old  and  young 
In  Gaelic,  or  the  English  tongue, 
Are  stifled,  —  all  is  still. 

And  quickly,  with  a  silent  crew, 
A  boat  is  ready  to  pursue  ; 
And  from  the  shore  their  course  they  take, 
And  swiftly  down  the  running  lake 
They  follow  the  bhnd  Boy. 

But  soon  they  move  with  softer  pace ; 
So  have  ye  seen  the  fowler  chase, 
On  Grasmere's  clear,  unruffled  breast, 
A  youngling  of  the  wild-duck's  nest, 
With  deftly  lifted  oar ; 

Or  as  the  wily  sailors  crept 
To  seize  (while  on  the  Deep  it  slept) 
The  hapless  creature  which  did  dwell 
Erewhile  within  the  dancing  shell. 
They  steal  upon  their  prey. 


THE    BLIND    HIGHLAND    liOT.  45 

With  sound  the  least  that  can  be  made, 
Thej  follow,  more  and  more  afraid, 
More  cautious  as  they  draw  more  near ; 
But  in  his  darkness  he  can  hear, 
And  guesses  their  uitent. 

"■Lei-gha, — Lei-gha,"  —  he  then  cried  out, 
^'■Lei-gha, — Lei-gha" — with  eager  shout; 
Thus  did  he  cry,  and  thus  did  pray, 
And  what  he  meant  was,  "  Keep  away. 
Aid  leave  me  to  myseh' !  " 

Alas  !  and  Avhen  he  felt  their  hands ■ 


You  've  often  heard  of  magic  wands, 
That  with  a  motion  overthrow 
A  palace  of  the  proudest  show, 
Or  melt  it  into  air  : 

So  all  his  dreams,  —  that  inward  li"^ht 
With  wliich  his  soul  had  shone  so  bridit,  — 
All  vanished ;  —  't  was  a  heartfelt  cross 
To  him,  a  heavy,  bitter  loss, 
As  he  had  ever  known. 

But  hark !  a  gratulating  voice. 
With  which  the  very  hills  rejoice : 
'T  is  from  the  crowd,  who  tremblingly 
Have  watched  the  event,  and  now  can  see 
That  he  is  safe  at  last. 


46  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  then,  when  he  was  brought  to  land, 
Full  sure  they  were  a  happy  band, 
Which,  gathering  round,  did  on  the  banks 
Of  that  great  Water  give  God  thanks, 
And  welcomed  the  poor  Child. 

And  in  the  general  joy  of  heart 
The  blind  Boy's  little  dog  took  part ; 
He  leapt  about,  and  oft  did  kiss 
His  master's  hands  in  sign  of  bliss, 
With  sound  like  lamentation. 

But  most  of  all,  his  Mother  dear, 
She  who  had  fainted  with  her  fear. 
Rejoiced  when  waking  she  espies 
The  Child  ;  when  she  can  trust  her  eyes, 
\nd  touches  the  blind  Boy. 

She  led  him  home,  and  wept  amain, 
When  he  was  in  the  house  again  : 
Tears  flowed  in  torrents  from  her  eyes ; 
She  kissed  him,  —  how  could  she  chastise  ? 
She  was  too  happy  far. 

Thus,  after  he  had  fondly  braved 
The  perilous  Deep,  the  Boy  was  saved ; 
And,  though  his  fancies  had  been  wild, 
Yet  he  was  pleased  and  reconciled 
To  live  in  peace  on  shore. 


THE    BLIND    UIGHLAXD    liOY.  17 

And  in  the  lonely  Highland  dell 
Still  do  they  keep  the  Turtle-shell ; 
And  long  the  story  will  repeat 
Of  the  blind  Boy's  adventurous  feax, 
And  how  he  was  preserved. 

Note. — It  is  recorded  in  Dampier's  Voyages,  that  a  boy, 
8on  of  the  captain  of  a  JIan-of-War,  seated  liimself  in  a  Tur- 
tle-shell, and  floated  in  it  fromf  the  shore  to  his  father's  ship, 
which  lay  at  anchor  at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile.  In  defer- 
ence to  the  opinion  of  a  Friend,  I  have  substituted  such  a 
shell  for  the  less  elegant  vessel  in  which  my  blind  Voyager 
did  actually  intrust  himself  to  the  dangerous  cuiTent  of  Locb 
Leven,  as  was  related  to  me  by  an  eyewitness 


MEMORIALS     OF     A     TOUR     IN 
SCOTLAND. 

1814. 


8CGGESTED  BY  A  BEAUTIFUL  RUIN  UPON  ONE  OF  TIIK 
ISLANDS  OF  LOCH  LOMOND,  A  PLACE  CHOSEN  FOK  THE 
RETREAT  OF  A  SOLITARY  INDIVIDUAL,  FROM  WIIOJI 
THIS     HABITATION    ACQUIRED    THE    NAME    OF 

THE  BROWNIE'S   CELL. 


To  bai'ren  heath,  bleak  moor,  and  quaking  fen. 

Or  depth  of  labyrmthine  glen  ; 

Or  into  trackless  forest  set 

With  trees,  whose  lofty  umbrage  met ; 

World-wearied  Men  withdrew  of  yore, 

(Penance  their  trust,  and  prayer  their  store,) 

And  in  the  wilderness  were  bound 

To  such  apartments  as  they  found, 

Or  with  a  new  ambition  raised. 

That  God  might  suitably  be  praised. 

II. 

High  lodged  the  Warrio?',  like  a  bird  of  prey, 
Or  where  broad  waters  round  him  lay  : 


TiiK  broavnie's   CIU.L.  49 

But  tliis  wild  Ruin  is  no  ghost 

Of  his  devices,  —  buried,  lost ! 

Within  this  little,  lonely  isle  ^ 

There  stood  a  consecrated  Pile  ; 

Where  tapers  burned,  and  mass  was  siuig, 

For  them  whose  timid  Spirits  clung 

To  mortal  succor,  though  the  tomb 

Had  fixed,  for  ever  fixed,  their  doom  ! 

III. 

Upon  those  servants  of  another  Avorld 
When  madding  Power  her  bolts  had  hurled, 
Their  habitation  shook ;  —  it  fell, 
And  perished,  save  one  naiTow  cell ; 
Whither,  at  length,  a  Wretch  retired, 
Who  neither  grovelled  nor  aspired : 
He,  strugghng  in  the  net  of  pride. 
The  future  scorned,  the  past  defied ; 
Still  tempering,  from  the  unguilty  forge 
Of  vain  conceit,  an  iron  scourge  ! 

IV. 

Proud  Remnant  was  he  of  a  fearless  Race, 
Who  stood  and  flourished  face  to  face 
With  their -perennial  hills;  —  but  Crime, 
Hastening  the  stern  decrees  of  Time, 
Brought  low  a  Power,  which  from  its  home 
Burst,  when  repose  grew  wearisome ; 
And,  taking  impulse  from  the  swoi'd, 
A.nd  mocking  its  own  plighted  word, 
^oh.  III.  4 


50  POEMS    OF   THE   I3IAG1NAT10X. 


Had  found,  in  ravage  widely  dealt, 
Its  warfare's  bourn,  its  travel's  belt ! 


All,  all  were  dispossessed,  save  him  whose  smile 
Shot  lightning  through  this  lonely  Isle  ! 
No  right  had  he  but  what  he  made 
To  this  small  spot,  his  leafy  shade ; 
But  the  ground  lay  within  tliat  ring 
To  which  he  only  dared  to  cling ; 
Renouncing  here,  as  worse  than  dead, 
The  craven  few  who  bowed  the  head 
Beneath  the  change  ;  who  heard  a  claim 
How  loud !  yet  lived  in  peace  with  shame. 

VI. 

From  year  to  year  tliis  shaggy  Mortal  went 
(So  seemed  it)  down  a  strange  descent: 
Till  they,  who  saw  his  outward  frame, 
Fixed  on  him  an  unhallowed  name  ; 
Him.  free  from  all  malicious  taint, 
And  guiding,  like  the  Patmos  Saint, 
A  pen  unwearied,  to  indite. 
In  this  lone  Isle,  the  dreams  of  night ; 
Impassioned  dreams,  that  strove  to  span 
The  faded  glories  of  his  Clan  ! 

VII. 

Suns  that  through  blood  their  western  harbor  sought, 
And  stars  that  in  their  courses  fought ; 


THE    brownie's    CELL.  o] 

Towers  rent,  winds  combating  with  woods, 
Lands  deluged  by  unbridled  floods  ; 
And  beast  and  bird  that  from  the  spell 
Of  sleep  took  import  terrible ;  — 
These  types  mysterious  (if  the  show 
Of  battle  and  the  routed  foe 
Had  failed)  would  furnish  an  array 
Of  matter  for  the  dawning  day  ! 

VIII. 

How  disappeared  He  ?  —  ask  the  newt  and  toad. 

Inheritors  of  his  abode  ; 

The  otter  crouching  undisturbed, 

In  her  dank  cleft;  —  but  be  thou  curbed, 

0  froward  Fancy  !  'mid  a  scene 

Of  aspect  winning  and  serene  ; 

For  those  offensive  creatures  shun 

The  inquisition  of  the  sun  ! 

And  in  this  region  flowers  delight. 

And  all  is  lovely  to  the  sight. 

IX. 

Spring  finds  not  here  a  melancholy  breast, 
When  she  applies  her  annual  test 
To  dead  and  living ;  when  her  breath 
Quickens,  as  now,  the  withered  heath  ;  — 
Nor  flaunting  Summer,  when  he  throws 
His  soul  into  the  brier-rose  ; 
Or  calls  the  lily  from  her  sleep 
'Prolonged  beneath  the  bordering  deep  ; 


52  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


Nor  Autumn,  wlien  the  viewless  wren 
Is  warbling  near  the  Brownie's  Den. 


Wild  Relique !  beauteous  as  the  chosen  spot 
In  Nysa's  isle,  the  embelHshed  grot ; 
Whither,  by  care  of  Libyan  Jove, 
(High  Servant  of  paternal  Love,) 
Young  Bacchus  was  conveyed,  —  to  lie 
Safe  from  his  step-dame  Rhea's  eye  ; 
Where  bud,  and  bloom,  and  fruitage  glowed. 
Close  crowding  round  the  infant  god  ; 
A.11  colors,  —  and  the  livehest  streak 
A  foil  to  his  celestial  cheek  I 


II. 

COMPOSED  AT   COllA  LINN, 

IN   SIGHT  OF  WALLACE'S   TOWER. 

'  —  Row  Wallace  fought  for  Scotland,  left  the  name 
Of  Wallace  to  be  found,  like  a  wild-flower, 
All  over  his  dear  Country;  left  the  deeds 
Of  Wallace,  like  a  family  of  ghosts. 
To  people  the  steep  rocks  and  river-banks, 
Her  natural  sanctuaries,  with  a  local  soul 
Of  independence  and  stern  liberty."  —  MS. 

Lord  of  the  vale  !  astounding  Flood  ; 
TIic  dullest  leaf  in  this  thick  wood 


COMPOSEB    AT    COKA    LIXN.  *'^'' 

Quakes,  conscious  of  thy  power ; 
The  caves  reply  with  hoUoAv  moan ; 
And  vibrates,  to  its  central  stone, 
Yon  time-cemented  Tower ! 

And  yet  how  fair  the  rural  scene  ! 
For  thou,  O  Clyde,  hast  ever  been 
Beneficent  as  strong ; 
Pleased  in  refreshing  dews  to  steep 
The  httle,  trembling  flowers  that  peep 
Thy  shelving  rocks  among. 

Hence  all  who  love  their  country,  love 
To  look  on  thee,  —  delight  to  rove 
Where  they  thy  ^•oice  can  hear ; 
And,  to  the  patriot-warrior's  Shade, 
Lord  of  the  vale  !  to  Heroes  laid 
In  dust,  that  voice  is  dear ! 

Along  thy  banks,  at  dead  of  night, 
Sweeps  visibly  the  Wallace  Wight ; 
Or  stands,  in  warlike  vest. 
Aloft,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
A  Champion  worthy  of  the  stream, 
Yon  gi"ay  tower's  living  crest ! 

But  clouds  and  envious  darkness  hide 
A  Form  not  doubtfully  descried :  — 
Their  transient  mission  o'er, 
O  say  to  A\'hat  blind  region  flee 


{)4  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGIVATION. 

These  Shapes  of  awful  fantasy  ? 
To  what  untrodden  shore  ? 

Less  than  divine  command  they  spurn  ; 
But  this  we  from  the  mountains  learn, 
And  this  the  valleys  show  ; 
That  never  wiU  they  deign  to  hold 
Communion  where  the  heart  is  cold 
To  human  weal  and  woe. 

The  man  of  abject  soul  in  vain 
Shall  walk  the  Marathon  i  an  plain  ; 
Or  thrid  the  shadowy  gloom, 
That  still  invests  the  guardian  Pass, 
Where  stood,  subUme,  Leonidas 
Devoted  to  the  tomb. 

And  let  no  Slave  his  head  incline, 
Or  kneel,  before  the  votive  shrine 
By  Uri's  lake,  where  Tell 
Leapt,  from  his  storm-vext  boat,  to  land, 
Heaven's  Instrument,  for  by  his  hand 
That  day  the  Tyrant  feU. 


EFFUSION.  55 

ir 

m. 

EFFUSION, 

ta  THE    PLEASURE  GROUND   ON  THE    BANKS  OF  THt     BRAH, 
NEAR  DUNKELD. 

"The  waterfall,  by  a  loud  roaring,  warned  us  when  we 
must  expect  it.  We  were  first,  however,  conducted  into  a 
Bmall  apartment,  where  the  Gardener  desired  us  to  look  at  a 
picture  of  Ossian,  which,  while  he  was  telling  the  history  of 
the  young  Artist  who  executed  the  work,  disappeared,  part- 
ing in  the  middle,  —  flying  asunder  as  by  the  touch  of  magic, 
—  and  lo!  we  are  at  the  entrance  of  a  splendid  apartment, 
which  was  almost  dizzy  and  alive  with  waterfalls,  that  tum- 
bled in  all  directions ;  the  great  cascade,  opposite  the  window, 
which  faced  us,  being  reflected  in  inmimerable  mirrors  upon 
the  ceihng  and  against  the  walls."  —  Extract  from  the  Journal 
if  my  Felloio- Traveller. 

What  !  he  who,  'mid  the  kuidred  throng 

Of  Heroes  that  inspired  his  song, 

Doth  yet  frequent  the  liill  of  storms, 

The  stars  dim-twinkUng  through  their  forms !  — 

"What !  Ossian  here,  —  a  painted  Thrall, 

Mute  fixture  on  the  stuccoed  wall ; 

To  serve,  an  unsuspected  screen, 

For  show  that  must  not  yet  be  seen  ; 

And,  when  the  moment  comes,  to  part 

And  vanish  by  mysterious  art ; 

Head,  harp,  and  body  split  asunder, 

For  ingress  to  a  world  of  wonder  ; 

A  gay  saloon,  with  waters  dancing 

Upon  the  sight  wherever  glancing ; 


56  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

One  loud  cascade  in  front,  and  lo ! 
A  thousand  like  it,  white  as  snow,  — 
Streams  on  the  walls,  and  torrent-foam 
As  active  round  the  hollow  dome, 
Illusive  cataracts  !  of  tlieir  terrors 
Not  stripped,  nor  voiceless  in  the  mirrors, 
That  catch  the  pageant  from  the  flood 
Tliundering  adown  a  rocky  wood. 
What  pains  to  dazzle  and  confound  ! 
Wliat  sti'ife  of  color,  shape,  and  sound 
In  that  quaint  medley,  that  might  seem  • 
Devised  out  of  a  sick  man's  dream  ! 
Strange  scene,  fantastic  and  uneasy 
As  ever  made  a  maniac  dizzy, 
When  disenchanted  from  the  mood 
That  loves  on  sullen  thoughts  to  brood ! 

0  Nature  !  —  in  thy  changeful  visions, 
Thi'ough  all  thy  most  abrupt  transitions 
Smooth,  graceful,  tender,  or  sublime,  — 
Ever  averse  to  pantomime. 
Thee  neither  do  they  know  nor  us 
Thy  servants,  who  can  trifle  thus ; 
Else  verily  the  sober  powers 
Of  rock  that  frowns,  and  stream  that  roars, 
Exalted  by  congenial  sway 
Of  Spirits,  and  the  undying  Lay, 
And  Names  that  moulder  not  away, 
Had  wakened  some  redeeming  thought 
More  worthy  of  this  favored  Spot ; 


EFFUSION.  57 


Recalled  some  feelino:,  to  set  free 


o' 


The  Bai'd  from  such  indignitj ! 

The  Effigies  *  of  a  valiant  Wight 
I  once  beheld,  a  Templai'  Knight ; 
Not  prostrate,  not  like  those  that  rest 
On  tombs,  with  palms  together  prest. 
But  sculptured  out  of  living  stone, 
And  standing  upright  and  alone. 
Both  hands  in  rival  energy 
Employed  in  setting  his  sword  free 
From  its  dull  sheath,  —  stern  sentinel 
Intent  to  guard  St.  Robert's  cell ; 
As  if  with  memory  of  the  affr.ay 
Far  distant,  when,  as  legends  say, 
The  Monks  of  Fountain's  thronsred  to  forcfi 
From  its  dear  home  the  Hermit's  corse. 
That  in  their  keeping  it  might  lie. 
To  crown  then*  abbey's  sanctity. 
So  had  they  rushed  into  the  grot 
Of  sense  despised,  a  world  forgot, 
And  torn  him  from  his  loved  retreat, 
Where  altar-stone  and  rock-hewn  seat 
StiU  hint  that  quiet  best  is  found. 
Even  by  the  Living,  under  ground ; 
But  a  bold  Knight,  the  selfish  aim 
Defeating,  put  the  Monks  tc  shame, 
There  where  you  see  his  Image  stand 
Bax'e  to  the  sky,  with  threatening  brand, 

*  On  the  banks  of  the  river  Nid,  near  Ivnaresborough, 


58  POEMS    OF    TtlE    IMAGINATION. 

Which  hngering  NiD  is  proud  to  show 
Reflected  in  the  pool  below. 

Thus,  like  the  men  of  earliest  dav.s. 
Our  sires  set  forth  their  grateful  praise  : 
Uncouth  the  workmanship,  and  rude  ! 
But,  nursed  in  mountain  sohtude, 
Might  some  aspirmg  artist  dare 
To  seize  whate'er,  through  misty  air, 
A  ghost,  by  glimpses,  may  present 
Of  imitable  lineament. 
And  give  the  phantom  an  array 
That  less  should  scorn  the  abandoned  clay  j 
Then  let  him  hew  with  patient  stroke 
An  Ossian  out  of  mural  rock, 
And  leave  the  figurative  Man  — 
Upon  thy  margin,  roaring  Bran  !  — 
Fixed,  like  the  Templar  of  the  steep, 
An  everlasting  watch  to  keep  ; 
With  local  sanctities  in  trust. 
More  precious  than  a  hermit's  dust ; 
And  virtues  tlu-ough  the  mass  infused, 
Which  old  idolatry  abused. 

What  thougli  the  Granite  would  deny 
All  fervor  to  the  sightless  eye  ; 
And  touch  from  rising  sims  in  vain 
Solicit  a  Memnonian  strain  ; 
Yet,  in  some  fit  of  anger  sharp, 
The  wind  miglit  force  the  deep-grooved  harp 
To  uttor  mol  uu'lioly  moans. 


EFFUSION.  59 


Not  unconnected  witli  the  tones 
Of  soul-sick  flesh  and  weary  bones  ; 
"While  grove  and  river  notes  would  lend 
Less  deeply  sad,  with  these  to  blend  ! 


Vain  pleasures  of  luxurious  life, 
For  ever  with  yourselves  at  strife  ; 
Through  town  and  country  both  deranged 
By  affectations  interchanged. 
And  all  the  perishable  gauds 
That  heaven-deserted  man  applauds  ; 
When  will  your  hapless  patrons  learn 
To  watch  and  ponder,  —  to  discern 
The  freshness,  the  everlasting  youth, 
Of  admiration  sprung  from  truth  ; 
From  beauty  infinitely  growing 
Upon  a  mind  with  love  o'erflowing, 
To  sound  the  depths  of  every  Art 
That  seeks  its  wisdom  tlu'ough  the  heart  ? 

Thus  (where  the  intrusive  Pile,  ill-graced 
With  bawbles  of  theatric  taste, 
O'erlooks  tlie  torrent  breathing  showers 
On  motley  bands  of  alien  flowers 
In  stiff  confusion  set  or  sown, 
Till  Nature  cannot  find  her  own, 
Or  keep  a  remnant  of  the  sod 
Which  Caledonian  Heroes  trod) 
I  mused  ;  and,  thirsting  for  redress, 
Recoiled  into  the  wilderness. 


30  P0E3IS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

IV. 

YARROW   VISITED. 

SEPTEMBER,    1814. 

(See  page  29.) 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow? — Tliis  the  Stream 

Of  \\'hich  my  fancy  cherished, 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perished  ! 

0  that  some  Minstrel's  harp  Avere  near. 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air. 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  ! 

Yet  why  ?  —  a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontrolled  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted ; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  vale, 
Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 
Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 
A  tender,  hazy  brightness  ; 
Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 


YARROW    VISITED.  C>\ 

All  profitless  dejection ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yari'ow  Vale  lay  bleeding  ? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feedins; : 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 

The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice. 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 
The  haunts  of  happy  Lovers, 
The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 
The  leafy  grove  that  covers  : 
And  Pity  sanctifies  the  Verse 
That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow. 
The  unconquerable  strength  of  love  ; 
Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation : 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy  ; 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

iVnd  pastoral  melancholy. 


»2  roKMS  or  the  imagination. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Kich  groves  of  loftj  stature, 

With  Yarrow  Avinding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature ; 

And,  rising  from  those  loftj  groves, 

Behold  a  Ruin  hoary  ! 

The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  Towers 

Renowned  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  blooms 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in  ; 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength, 

And  age  to  wear  away  in  ! 

Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts,  that  nestle  there,  — 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day. 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gatlier. 

And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather  ! 

Ajid  what  if  I  inwreatlied  my  own  ! 

'T  were  no  offence  to  reason  ; 

The  sober  Hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see,  —  but  not  by  sight  alone, 
Loved  YaiTow,  have  1  won  thee ; 
A  ray  of  fancy  still  sui-vives,  — 


YARROW   VISITED. 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee ! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  hvely  pleasure ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  nps  can  breathe, 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapors  linger  round  the  Heights, 
They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish  ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine,  — 
Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish. 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
Thy  genuine  image,  Tarrow  ! 
Will  dwell  with  me,  —  to  heighten  joy, 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 


G3 


POEMS 

DEDICATED    TO    NATIONAL    INDEPENDENCE   AND 
LIBERTY. 


PART  I. 


COMPOSED  BY   TIIK   SEA-SIDE.   NEAR  CALAIS. 
AUGUST,  1802. 

Fair  Star  of  evening,  Splendor  of  the  west, 
Star  of  my  Country  I  —  on  the  horizon's  brink 
Thou  hangest,  stooping,  as  might  seem,  to  sink 
On  England's  bosom  ;  yet  well  pleased  to  rest, 
Meanwliile,  and  be  to  her  a  glorious  crest 
Conspicuous  to  the  Nations.     Thou,  I  think, 
Shouldst  be  my  Country's  emblem  ;  and  shouldst 

wink, 
Bright  Star  !  with  laughter  on  her  banners,  drest 
In  thy  fresh  beauty.     There !  that  dusky  spot 
Beneath  thee,  that  is  England ;  there  she  lies 
Blessings  be  on  you  both  !  one  hope,  one  lot, 
One  life,  one  glory  !  —  I,  with  many  a  fear 
For  my  dear  Country,  many  heart-felt  sighs, 
•Vnioiig  men  Avho  do  not  love  her,  hnger  here. 


SONNETS.  65 

II. 

CALAIS,  AUGUST,  1802. 

Is  it  a  reed  that 's  shaken  by  the  wind, 

Or  what  is  it  that  ye  go  forth  to  see  ? 

Lords,  lawyers,  statesmen,  sciuires  of  low  degree, 

Men  known,  and  men  unknown,  sick,  lame,  and 

bUnd, 
Post  forward  all,  like  creatures  of  one  kind, 
With  first-fruit  offerings  crowd  to  bend  the  knee 
In  France,  before  the  new-born  Majesty. 
'T  is  ever  thus.     Ye  men  of  prostrate  mind, 
A  seemly  reverence  may  be  paid  to  power  ; 
But  that 's  a  loyal  virtue,  never  sown 
In  haste,  nor  springing  with  a  transient  shower : 
"When  truth,  when  sense,  when  hberty,  were  flown, 
What  hardship  had  it  been  to  wait  an  hour  ? 
Shame  on  you,  feeble  Heads,  to  slavery  prone  ! 


m. 


OOSfPOSED    NEAR    CALAIS,     ON     THE     ROAD     LEADING    TO 

ARDRES,   AUGUST   7,    1802. 

Jones  !  as  from  Calais  southward  you  and  I 
Went  pacing  side  by  side,  this  public  Way 
Streamed  with  the  pomp  of  a  too  credulous  day,* 
When  faith  was  pledged  to  new-born  Liberty : 

*  14th  July,  1790. 

VOL.    Ill  5 


66  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

A  homeless  sound  of  joy  was  in  the  sky : 

From  houi"  to  hour  the  antiquated  Earth, 

Beat  hke  the  heart  of  Man  :  songs,  garhmds,  mirth, 

Banners,  and  happy  faces,  far  and  nigh ! 

And  now,  sole  register  that  these  things  were. 

Two  soKtary  greetings  have  I  heard, 

"  Good  morrow,  Citizen  !  "  a  hollow  word, 

As  if  a  dead  man  spake  it !     Yet  despair 

Touches  me  not,  though  pensive  as  a  bird 

Whose  vernal  coverts  Winter  hath  laid  bare.* 


IV. 

1801. 

1  GRIEVED  for  Buonaparte,  with  a  vain 
And  an  unthinking  grief!     The  tenderest  mood 
Of  that  Man's  mind,  —  what  can  it  be  ?  what  food 
Fed  his  first  hopes?  what  knowledge  could  he  gain? 
'T  is  not  in  battles  that  from  youth  we  train 
The  Governor  who  must  be  wise  and  good, 
And  temper  with  the  sternness  of  the  brain 
Thoughts  motherly,  and  meek  as  womanhood. 
Wisdom  doth  hve  with  children  round  her  knees : 
Books,  leisure,  perfect  freedom,  and  the  talk 
Man  holds  with  week-day  man  in  the  hourly  walk 
Of  the  mind's  business  :  these  are  the  degrees 
By  wliich  true  Sway  doth  mount ;  this  is  the  <talk 
True  Power  doth  grow  on ;  and  her  rights  are  these. 

*  See  Note. 


80NNKTS.  C7 

V. 

CALAIS,   AUGUST   15,    1802. 

Festivals  have  I  seen  that  were  not  names : 
Phis  is  young  Buonaparte's  natal  day, 
And  his  is  henceforth  an  established  sway,  — 
Consul  for  life.     With  worship  France  proclaims 
Her  approbation,  and  with  pomps  and  games. 
Heaven  grant  that  other  Cities  may  be  gay ! 
Calais  is  not :  and  I  have  bent  my  way 
To  the  sea-coast,  noting  that  each  man  frames 
His  business  as  he  likes.     Far  other  show 
My  youth  here  witnessed,  in  a  prouder  time  : 
The  senselessness  of  joy  was  then  sublime ! 
Happy  is  he,  who,  caring  not  for  Pope, 
Consul,  or  King,  can  sound  himself  to  know 
The  destiny  of  Man,  and  live  in  hope. 


VI. 
ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE   VENETIAN    RErUBLK. 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee, 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West :  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free ; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate ; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate. 


68  POEjrS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay ; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day  : 
Men  are  v^e,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  Sliadt 
Of  that  wliich  once  was  great  is  passed  away. 


VII. 

THE  KING  OF   SWEDEN. 

The  Voice  of  Song  from  distant  lands  shall  call 
To  that  great  King ;  shall  hail  the  crowned  Youth 
Who,  taking  counsel  of  unbending  Truth, 
By  one  example  hath  set  forth  to  all 
How  they  with  dignity  may  stand  ;  or  fall. 
If  fall  they  must.     Now,  whither  doth  it  tend  ? 
And  what  to  him  and  his  shall  be  the  end  ? 
That  thought  is  one  which  neither  can  appall 
Nor  cheer  him ;  for  the  illustrious  Swede  hath  done 
The  thing  which  ought  to  be  ;  is  raised  above 
All  consequences :  work  he  hath  begun 
Of  fortitude,  and  piety,  and  love. 
Which  all  his  glorious  ancestors  approve  : 
The  hero3S  bless  him,  him  their  rightful  son.* 

*  See  note 


SONNETS.  69 

VIII. 

TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTUEE. 

PoussAiNT,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 
Whether  the  whisthng  Rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den ;  — 
0  miserable  Chieftain  !  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not ;  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again. 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;  air,  earth,  and  skies ; 
There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  ;  thou  hast  great  alhes ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

IX. 

SEPTEMBER  1,    1802 

Among  the  capricious  acts  of  tyranny  tliat  disgraced  those 
times  was  the  chasing  of  all  Negroes  from  France  by  decree 
of  tlie  goverimient:  we  had  a  Fellow-passenger  who  was  one 
»f  the  expelled. 

We  had  a  female  Passenger  who  came 
From  Calais  with  us,  spotless  in  array,  — 
4  white-robed  Negro,  like  a  lady  gay, 


70  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

Yet  downcast,  as  a  woman  fearing  blame ; 
Meek,  destitute,  as  seemed,  of  hope  or  aim 
She  sat,  from  notice  turning  not  away. 
But  on  all  proifered  intercourse  did  lay 
A  weight  of  languid  speech,  or  to  the  same 
No  sign  of  answer  made  by  word  or  face : 
Yet  still  her  eyes  retained  their  tropic  fire, 
That,  burning  independent  of  the  mind. 
Joined  with  the  lustre  of  her  rich  attire 
To  mock  the  Outcast.  —  O  ye  Heavens,  be  kind ! 
And  feel,  thou  Earth,  for  this  afflicted  Race ! 


COMPOSED   IN  THE   VALLEY  NEAK   DOVER,   ON   THE  DAY   OF 
LANDING. 

Heke,  on  our  native  soil,  we  breathe  once  more. 
The  cock  that  crows,  the  smoke  that  curls,  tliat  sound 
Of  bells ;  —  those  boys  who  in  yon  meadow-ground 
In  white-sleeved  shirts  are  playing ;  and  the  roar 
Of  the  waves  breaking  on  the  chalky  shore ;  — 
All,  all  are  English.     Oft  have  I  looked  round 
With  joy  in  Kent's  green  vales ;  but  never  found 
Myself  so  satisfied  in  heart  before. 
Europe  is  jet  in  bonds  ;  but  let  that  pass, 
Thought  for  anotlier  moment.     Thou  art  free, 
My  Country  !  and  't  is  joy  enough  and  pride 
For  one  hour's  perfect  bliss,  to  tread  the  grass 
Of  England  once  again,  and  hear  and  see, 
With  such  a  dear  Companion  at  my  side. 


SONNETS.  7 1 

XI. 

SEPTEMBER,   1802.      NEAR   DOVER. 

INLAND,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood  ; 

And  saw,  wliile  sea  was  calm  and  air  was  clear, 

The  coast  of  France,  —  the  coast  of  France  how 

near ! 
Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighborhood. 
I  shrunk  ;  for  verily  the  barrier  flood 
"Was  like  a  lake,  or  river  bright  and  fair, 
A  span  of  waters  ;  yet  what  power  is  there  ! 
Wliat  mightiness  for  evil  and  for  good  ! 
Even  so  doth  God  protect  us,  if  we  be 
Virtuous  and  wise.     Winds  blow,  and  waters  roll, 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  Power,  and  Deity ; 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing !     One  decree 
Spake  laws  to  theyn,  and  said  that  by  the  soul 
Only,  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and  free. 


XII. 

THOUGHT  OF  A  BRITON  ON  THE   SUBJUGATION   OF 
SWITZERLAND. 

Two  Voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  sea. 
One  of  the  mountains  ;  each  a  mighty  Voice : 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music.  Liberty  ! 
There  came  a  Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 


72  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

Thou  fouglit'st  against  him ;  but  hast  vainly  striven: 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 
Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft : 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left ; 
For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 
That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 
And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore. 
And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee ! 


XIII. 
WRITTEN  IN  LONDON,    SEPTEMBER,    1802. 

O  Friend  !  Iknow  not  which  way  I  must  look 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show  ;  mean  handiwork  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom  !  —  We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brocb 

In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest : 

The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best: 

No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 

Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense. 

This  is  idolatry  ;  and  these  we  adore  : 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more : 

The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 

Is  gone  ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 

And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 


SONNETS.  73 

XIV. 
LONDON,   1802. 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower. 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  Enghsh  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  ; 
0,  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power  ! 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea : 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heai't 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


XV. 


Great  men  have  been  among  us ;  hands  that  penned 

And  tongues  that  uttered  wisdom,  —  better  none  : 

The  later  Sidney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 

Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  JNIilton  friend. 

These  moralists  could  act  and  comprehend  : 

They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on  ; 

Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 

In  splendor:  what  strength  was,  that  would  not  bend 


"4  POEMS    OF   THE    I31AGINA1I0N. 

But  in  magnanimous  meekness.  France,  't  is  strange, 
tiath  brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we  had  then. 
Perpetual  emptiness  !  unceasing  change  ! 
No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 
No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road ; 
But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men  ! 


XVI. 


It  is  not  to  be  thought  of,  that  the  Flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which  to  the  open  sea 
Of  the  world's  praise  from  dark  antiquity 
Hath  flowed,  "  with  pomp  of  waters,  unwithstood," 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 
Wliich  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands,  — 
That  this  most  famous  Stream  in  bogs  and  sands 
Should  perish ;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  for  ever.     In  our  halls  is  huna; 
Armorv  of  the  invincil)le  Knights  of  old  : 
We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 
That  Shakespeare  spake ;  the  faith  and  morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held. — In  everything  we  are  sprung 
Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 


XVII. 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Grreat  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 


SONNETS.  75 

\Vlien  men  change  swords  for  legers,  and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 
I  had,  my  Country  !  —  am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 
Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art. 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 
For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee ;  we  who  find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  ; 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled  : 
What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ! 


XVIII. 
OCTOBER,    1803. 


One  might  believe  that  natural  miseries 
Had  blasted  France,  and  made  of  it  a  land 
Unfit  for  men  ;  and  that  in  one  great  band 
Her  sons  were  bursting  forth,  to  dwell  at  ease. 
But 't  is  a  chosen  soil,  where  sun  and  breeze 
Shed  gentle  favors  :  rural  works  are  there. 
And  ordinary  business  without  care  ; 
Spot  rich  in  all  things  that  can  soothe  and  please  ! 
How  piteous  then  that  there  should  be  such  dearth 
Of  knowledge  ;  that  whole  myriads  should  unite 
To  work  against  themselves  sucli  fell  despite. — 
Should  come  in  frenzy  and  in  drunken  mirth, 
Impatient  to  put  out  the  only  light 
Of  Liberty  that  yet  remains  on  earth  ! 


76  POKMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 


XIX. 

There  is  a  bondage  worse,  flir  worse,  to  bear, 
Than  his  who  breathes,  by  roof,  and  floor,  and  wall, 
Pent  in,  a  Tyrant's  sohtary  Thrall : 
'T  is  his  who  walks  about  in  the  open  air, 
One  of  a  Nation  who,  henceforth,  must  wear 
Their  fetttu-s  in  their  souls.     For  who  could  be, 
A\^!io,  even  the  best,  in  such  condition,  free 
From  self-reproach,  reproach  that  he  must  sliare 
With  Human-nature  ?     Never  be  it  ours 
To  see  the  sun  how  brightly  it  will  shine, 
And  know  that  noble  feeUngs,  manly  powers, 
Instead  of  gatliering  strength,  must  droop  and  pine ; 
And  earth  with  all  her  pleasant  fruits  and  flowers 
Fade,  and  participate  in  man's  dechne. 


XX. 

OCTOBER,    1803. 

These  times  strike  moneyed  worldlings  with  dis 

may : 
E\'en  rich  men,  brave  by  nature,  taint  the  air 
With  words  of  apprehension  and  despair  : 
While  tens  of  thousands,  thinking  on  the  affray, 
Men  unto  whom  sufficient  for  the  day 
And  minds  not  stinted  or  untilled  are  given, 
Sound,  healthy  children  of  the  God  of  heaven. 


SONNETS.  77 

And  cheerful  as  the  risuig  sun  in  May. 

What  do  we  gather  hence  but  firmer  faith 

That  every  gift  of  noble  origin 

Is  breathed  upon  by  Hope's  perpetual  breath ; 

Tiiat  virtue  and  the  faculties  within 

Are  vital,  —  and  that  riches  are  akin 

To  fear,  to  change,  to  cowardice,  and  death  ? 


XXI. 

England  !  the  time  is  come  when  thou  shouldsl 

wean 
Tliy  heart  from  its  emasculating  food; 
The  truth  should  now  be  better  understood  ; 
Old  things  have  been  unsettled ;  we  have  seen 
Fair  seed-time,  better  harvest  might  have  been 
But  for  thy  trespasses ;  and,  at  this  day, 
If  for  Greece,  Egypt,  India,  Africa, 
Aught  good  were  destined,  thou  wouldst  step  be 

tween. 
England  !  all  nations  in  this  charere  a"Tee  : 
But  worse,  more  ignorant  in  love  and  hate. 
Far,  far  more  abject,  is  thine  Enemy  : 
Therefore  the  wise  pray  for  thee,  though  the  freight 
Of  thy  offences  be  a  heavy  weight : 
0  grief,  that  Earth's  best  hopes  rest  all  with  thee ! 


78  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XX  ri. 

OCTOBER,   1803. 

When,  looking  on  the  present  face  of  things, 
I  see  one  man  —  of  men  the  meanest,  too  !  — 
Raised  up  to  sway  the  world,  to  do,  undo, 
\Vith  mighty  Nations  for  his  underhngs, 
The  great  events  with  which  old  story  rings 
Seem  vain  and  hollow  ;  I  find  nothing  great : 
Nothing  is  left  which  I  can  venerate  ; 
So  that  a  doubt  almost  within  me  springs 
Of  Providence,  such  emptiness  at  length 
Seems  at  the  heart  of  all  things.     But,  great  God ! 
I  measure  back  the  steps  which  I  have  trod ; 
And  tremble,  seeing  whence  proceeds  the  strength 
Of  such  poor  Instruments,  witli  thoughts  sublime 
r  tremble  at  the  sorrow  of  the  tinie. 

XXIII. 
TO  THE   MEN  OF    KENT.      OCTOBER,    1803. 

Vanguard  of  Liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent, 

Ye  children  of  a  Soil  that  doth  advance 

Her  haughty  brow  against  the  coast  of  France, 

Now  is  the  time  to  prove  your  hai'diment ! 

To  France  be  words  of  invitation  sent ! 

They  fiom  their  fields  can  see  the  countenance 

Of  your  fierce  war,  may  ken  the  glittering  lance. 


SONNETS.  79 

And  hear  you  shouting  forth  your  brave  intent. 
Left  smgle,  in  bold  parley,  ye,  of  yore, 
Did  from  the  Norman  win  a  gallant  wreath ; 
Confirmed  the  charters  that  were  yours  before ;  — 
No  parleying  now !     In  Britain  is  one  bream  ; 
We  aU  are  with  you  now  from  shore  to  shore :  — 
Ye  men  of  Kent,  't  is  victory  or  death ! 


XXIV. 

What  if  our  numbers  barely  could  defy 
The  arithmetic  of  babes,  must  foreign  hordes, 
Slaves  vile  as  ever  were  befooled  by  words, 
Striking  through  English  breasts  the  anarchy 
Of  Teri-or,  bear  us  to  the  ground,  and  tie 
Our  hands  behind  our  backs  with  felon  cords  r 
Yields  everything  to  discipline  of  swords  ? 
Is  man  as  good  as  man,  none  low,  none  high  ?- 
Nor  discipline  nor  valor  can  withstand 
The  shock,  nor  quell  the  inevitable  rout, 
When  in  some  great  extremity  breaks  out 
A  people,  on  their  own  beloved  Land 
Risen,  hke  one  man,  to  combat  in  the  sight 
Of  a  just  Grod  for  liberty  and  right. 


80  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGIXATION. 


XXV. 

LINES    ON   THE    EXPECTED    INVASION. 
1803. 


Come  ye,  who,  if  (which  Heaven  avert !)  the  Land 
Were  with  herself  at  strife,  would  take  your  stand, 
Like  gallant  Falkland,  by  the  Monarch's  side, 
And,  hke  Montrose,  make  Loyalty  your  pride  ;  — 
Come  ye,  who,  not  less  zealous,  might  display 
Banners  at  enmity  with  regal  sway. 
And,  like  the  Pyms  and  Miltons  of  that  day, 
Tliink  that  a  State  would  live  in  sounder  health 
If  Kingsliip  bowed  its  head  to  Commonwealth;  — 
Ye  too,  whom  no  discreditable  fear 
Would  keep,  perhaps  with  many  a  fruitless  tear, 
Uncertain  what  to  choose  and  how  to  steer  ;  — 
And  ye,  who  might  mistake  for  sober  sense 
And  wise  reserve  the  plea  of  indolence  ;  — 
Come  ye,  —  whate'er  your  creed,  —  O  waken  all 
Wliate'er  your  temper,  at  your  Country's  call ; 
Resolving  (this  a  free-born  Nation  can) 
To  have  one  Soul,  and  perish  to  a  man, 
Or  save  this  honored  Land  from  every  Lord 
But  British  reason  and  the  British  sword. 


BONNETS.  81 

XXYI. 

ANTICIPATION.      OCTOBER,   1803. 

Shout,  for  a  mighty  Victory  is  won  ! 

On  British  ground  the  invaders  are  laid  low  ; 

The  breath  of  Heaven  has  drifted  them  like  sno'v^. 

And  left  them  lying  in  the  silent  sun, 

Never  to  rise  again  !  —  the  work  is  done. 

Come  forth,  ye  old  men,  now  in  peaceful  show, 

And  greet  your  sons !  drums  beat  and  trumpets 

blow ! 
Make  merry,  wives  !  ye  little  children,  stun 
Your  grandame's  ears  with  pleasure  of  your  noise  I 
Clap,  infants,  clap  your  hands  !     Divine  must  be 
That  triumph,  when  the  very  worst,  the  pain, 
And  even  the  prospect  of  our  brethren  slain, 
Hath  something  in  it  which  the  heart  enjoys :  — 
In  glory  will  they  sleep  and  endless  sanctity. 

XXVII. 
NOVEMBER,    1806. 

Another  year  !  —  another  deadly  blow  ! 

Another  mighty  Empire  overthrown  ! 

And  we  are  left,  or  shall  be  left,  alone  ; 

riie  last  that  dare  to  strujz-gle  with  the  Foe. 

'T  is  well !  from  this  day  forward  we  sliall  know 

That  in  ourselves  our  safety  must  be  sought ; 
^•oi,.  in.  6 


82  I'OEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

That  by  our  own  right  hands  it  must  be  wrought ; 
That  we  must  stand  unpropped,  or  be  laid  low. 
0  dastard  Avhom  such  foretaste  doth  not  cheer ! 
We  shall  exult,  if  they  who  rule  the  land 
Be  men  who  hold  its  many  blessings  dear, 
Wise,  upright,  valiant ;  not  a  servile  band, 
Who  are  to  judge  of  danger  which  they  fear, 
And  honor  which  they  do  not  understand. 


XXVIII. 

ODE. 
I. 

Who  rises  on  the  banks  of  Seine, 
And  binds  her  temples  with  the  civic  wreath  ? 
What  joy  to  read  the  promise  of  her  mien  ! 
How  sweet  to  rest  her  wide-spread  wings  beneatu 
But  they  are  ever  playing, 
And  twinkling  in  the  light. 
And,  if  a  breeze  be  straying. 
That  breeze  she  will  invite  ; 
And  stands  on  tiptoe,  conscious  she  is  fair, 
^d  calls  a  look  of  love  into  her  face. 
And  spreads  her  arms,  as  if  the  general  air 
Alone  could  satisfy  her  wide  embrace. 
—  Melt,  Princii)alities,  before  her  melt ! 
Her  love  ye  hailed,  —  her  wrath  have  felt ! 
'3u(  she  thrttugh  many  a  change  of  form  hath  gone, 


ODE.  83 

Ajid  stands  amidst  you  now  an  armed  creature, 
Wliose  panoply  is  not  a  thing  put  on, 
But  the  live  scales  of  a  portentous  nature  ; 
That,  having  forced  its  Avay  from  birth  to  birth,- 
Stalks  round,  abhorred  by  Heaven,  a  terror  to  the 
Earth! 

n. 

I  marked  the  breathings  of  her  dragon  crest ; 
My  Soul,  a  sorrowful  interpreter. 
In  many  a  midnight  vision  bowed 
Before  the  ominous  aspect  of  her  speai- ; 
Whether  the  mighty  beam,  in  scorn  upheld. 
Threatened  her  foes,  —  or,  pompously  at  rest. 
Seemed  to  bisect  her  orbed  shield, 
As  stretches  a  blue  bar  of  sohd  cloud 
Across  the  setting  sun  and  all  the  fiery  west. 

ni. 

So  did  she  daunt  the  Earth,  and  God  defy ! 
And,  wheresoe'er  she  spread  her  sovereignty, 
Pollution  tainted  all  that  was  most  pure. 
—  Have  we  not  known, — and  live  we  not  to  tell,  — 
That  Justice  seemed  to  hear  her  final  knell  ? 
Faith  buried  deeper  in  her  own  deep  breast 
Her  stores,  and  sighed  to  find  them  insecure  ! 
And  Hope  was  maddened  by  the  drops  that  fell 
Fiom  shades,  her  chosen  place  of  short-lived  rest. 
Shame  followed  shame,  and  woe  supplanted  woe, — 
Ls  this  the  only  change  that  time  can  show  ? 


84  POEMS    OP   THE    IMAGINATION. 

How  long  shall  vengeance  sleep  ?      Ye  patient 

Heavens,  how  long? 
■ —  Infirm  ejaculation  !  from  the  tongue 
Of.Nations  wanting  virtue  to  be  strong 
Up  to  the  measure  of  accorded  might, 
And  daring  not  to  feel  the  majesty  of  right ! 

IV. 

Weak  Spirits  are  there,  —  who  would  ask. 
Upon  the  pressure  of  a  painful  thing, 
The  lion's  sinews,  or  the  eagle's  wing ; 
Or  let  their  wishes  loose,  in  forest  glade, 

Among  the  lurking  powers 

Of  herbs  and  lowly  flowers. 
Or  seek,  from  saints  above,  miraculous  aid,  — 
That  Man  may  be  accomplished  for  a  task 
Which  his  own  nature  hath  enjoined  ;  —  and  why  ? 
If,  when  that  interference  hath  relieved  him. 

He  must  sink  down  to  languish 
In  worse  than  former  helplessness,  —  and  lie 

Till  the  caves  roar,  —  and,  imbecility 

Again  engendering  anguish. 
The  same  weak  wish  returns,  that  had  before  de- 
ceived him. 


But  Thou,  supreme  Disposer  !  mayst  not  speed 
The  course  of  things,  and  change  the  creed 
Which  hath  been  held  aloft  before  men's  sight 
Since  tlie  first  framing  of  societies, 


SONNETS.  85 


VVliether,  as  bards  have  told  in  ancient  song, 
Built  up  by  soft  seducing  harmonies  ; 
Or  prest  together  by  the  appetite, 

And  by  the  power,  of  wrong. 


PART  11. 
I. 

'  ON    A    CELEBRATED    EVENT   IN   ANCIENT   HISTORY. 

A  Roman  Master  stands  on  Grecian  ground, 
And  to  the  people  at  the  Isthmian  Games 
Assembled  he,  by  a  herald's  voice,  proclaims 
The  Liberty  of  Greece: — the  words  rebound 
Until  all  voices  in  one  voice  are  drowned ; 
Glad  acclamation  by  which  air  was  rent ! 
A\d  birds,  high  flying  in  the  element, 
Dropped  to  the  earth,  astonished  at  the  sound  ! 
Yet  were  the  thoughtful  grieved ;  and  still  that  voice 
Haunts,  Avith  sad  echoes,  musing  Fancy's  ear : 
Ah !  that  a  Conqueror's  Avords  should  be  so  dear : 
Ah !  that  a  boon  could  shed  such  rapturous  joys ! 
A.  "dft  of  that  which  is  not  to  be  given 
By  all  the  blended  powers  of  Earth  and  Heaven. 


86  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 


II. 

UPOX   THE   SAME   EVENT. 

When,  far  and  wide,  swift  as  the  beams  of  morn 

The  tidings  passed  of  servitude  repealed, 

And  of  that  joy  wliich  shook  the  Isthmian  Field, 

The  rough  ^tolians  smiled  with  bitter  scorn. 

"  'T  is  known,"  cried  they,  "  that  he,  who  wouhl 

adorn 
His  envied  temples  with  the  Isthmian  crown, 
Must  either  win,  through  effort  of  his  own, 
The  prize,  or  be  content  to  see  it  worn 
By  more  deserving  brows.  — Yet  so  ye  prop, 
Sons  of  the  brave  who  fought  at  Marathon, 
Your  feeble  spirits  !    Greece  her  head  hath  bowed, 
As  if  the  Avreath  of  liberty  thereon 
Would  fix  itseh"  as  smoothly  as  a  cloud, 
Which,  at  Jove's  will,  descends  on  Pelion's  top." 


III. 


TO   THOMA3     CLARKSOX,   OX    THE    FINAL    PASSING    OF    THH 
BILL   FOR  THE  ABOLITIOX   OF  THE   SL^VVE-TIiADE. 

MARCH,    1807. 

Clarkson  !  it  was  an  obstinate  hill  to  climb : 
How  toilsome  —  nay,  how  dire  —  it  was,  by  thee 
Is  known  ;  by  none,  perhaps,  so  feelingly  : 
Hut  th')u,  who,  starting  in  thy  fervent  prime. 


SONNETS.  87 

Didst  first  lead  forth  that  enterprise  sublime, 
Hast  heard  the  constant  Voice  its  charge  repeat, 
Which,  out  of  thy  young  heart's  oracular  seat, 
First  roused  thee.  —  0  true  yoke-fellow  of  Time, 
Duty's  intrepid  liegeman,  see,  the  palm 
Ts  won,  and  by  all  Nations  shall  be  worn  ! 
The  blood-stained  "Writing  is  for  ever  torn  ; 
And  thou  henceforth  wilt  have  a  good  man's  calm, 
A  great  man's  happiness  ;  thy  zeal  shall  find 
Repose  at  length,  firm  friend  of  human  kind  ! 


IV. 

A  PROPHECY.   FEBRUARY,  1807. 

High  deeds,  O  Germans,  are  to  come  from  you ! 
Thus  in  your  books  the  record  shall  be  found : 
•'  A  watchword  was  pronounced,  a  potent  sound,  — 
Arminius  !  —  aU  the  people  quaked  like  dew 
Stirred  by  the  breeze ;  they  rose,  a  Nation,  true. 
True  to  herself,  —  the  mighty  Germany, 
She  of  the  Danube  and  the  Northern  Sea, 
She  rose,  and  off  at  once  the  yoke  she  threw. 
All  power  was  given  her  in  the  dreadful  trance ; 
Those  new-born  Kings  she  withered  like  a  flame." 
—  Woe  to  them  all !  but  heaviest  woe  and  shame 
To  that  Bavarian  who  could  first  advance 
His  banner  in  accursed  league  with  France, 
First  open  traitor  to  the  German  name ! 


88  rOEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION 

V. 

COMPOSED   BY   THE   SIDE   OF   GRASMERK   LAKE.      1807. 

(Jlouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars 
Through  the  gray  west ;  and  lo !  these  waters 

steeled 
By  breezeless  air  to  smoothest  polish,  yield 
A  vivid  repetition  of  the  stars  ; 
Jove,  Venus,  and  the  ruddy  crest  of  Mars, 
Amid  his  fellows  beauteously  revealed 
At  happy  distance  from  P^arth's  groaning  field, 
AVhere  ruthless  mortals  wage  incessant  wars. 
Is  it  a  mirror  ?  —  or  the  nether  Sphere 
Opening  to  view  the  abyss  in  which  she  feeds 
Her  own  calm  fires  ?  —  But  list !  a  voice  is  rear ; 
Great   Pan  himself  low   whisi^ering  through  the 

reeds, 
"  Be  thankful,  thou  ;  for,  if  unholy  deeds 
Ravage  the  world,  tranquilUty  is  here ! " 


VI. 


Go  back  to  antique  ages,  if  thine  eyes 
Tlie  genuine  mien  and  character  woidd  trace 
Of  the  rash  Spirit  tliat  still  holds  her  place. 
Prompting  the  world's  audacious  vanities  ! 
Go  back,  and  see  the  Tower  of  Babel  ri'^e ; 
The  pyj-amid  extend  its  monstrous  base; 


SONNETS.  89 

For  some  Aspirant  of  our  short-lived  race, 
Anxious  an  aery  name  to  immortalize. 
There,  too,  ere  wiles  and  politic  dispute 
Gave  specious  coloi'ing  to  aim  and  act, 
See  the  first  mighty  Hunter  leave  the  brute. 
To  chase  mankind,  with  men  in  armies  packed 
For  his  field-pastime  high  and  absolute, 
While,  to  dislodge  his  game,  cities  are  sacked  ! 


VII. 


COMPOSED  WHILE  THE   AUTHOR  WAS  ENGAGED    IN  WIUTING 
A  TKACT,  OCCASIONED  BY  THE  CONVENTION  OF  CINTKA. 

1808. 

Not  'mid  the  World's  vain  objects,  that  enslave 
The  free-born  Soul,  —  that  World  whose  vaunted 

skiU 
In  selfish  interest  perverts  the  will. 
Whose  factions  lead  astray  the  wise  and  brave,  — ■ 
Not  there  ;  but  in  dark  wood  and  rocky  cave. 
And  hollow  vale,  which  foaming  torrents  fill 
With  omnipresent  murmur  as  they  rave 
Down  their  steep  beds,  that  never  shall  be  still : 
Here,  mighty  Nature  !  in  this  school  sublime 
I  weigh  the  hopes  and  fears  of  suffering  Spain  ; 
For  her  consult  the  auguries  of  time. 
And  through  the  human  heart  explore  my  way ; 
And  look  and  listen,  —  gathering,  whence  I  may, 
Triumph,  and  thoughts  no  bondage  can  restrain. 


90  POEMS    OF    TITF,    IMAGINATION. 


vin. 

COMPOSED   AT  THE   SAME  TIME  AND   ON   TITP,   8AMB 
OCCASION. 

I  DROPPED  my  pen  ;  and  listened  to  the  Wind 
That  sang  of  trees  uptorn  and  vessels  tost,  — 
A  midnight  harmony  ;  and  wholly  lost 
To  the  general  sense  of  men  by  chains  confined 
Of  business,  care,  or  pleasure  ;  or  resigned 
To  timely  sleep.    Thought  I,  the  impassioned  strain, 
Which,  without  aid  or  numbers,  I  sustain. 
Like  acceptation  from  the  World  will  find. 
Yet  some  with  apprehensive  ear  shall  drink 
A  dirge  devoutly  breathed  o'er  sorrows  past ; 
And  to  the  attendant  promise  will  give  heed, — 
The  prophecy,  —  like  that  of  this  wild  blast, 
Which,  Avhile  it  makes  the  heart  with  sadness  shrink, 
Tells  also  of  bright  calms  that  shall  succeed. 


IX. 

HOFFER. 

Of  mortal  parents  is  the  Hero  born 

By  whom  the  undaunted  Tyrolese  are  led? 

Or  is  it  Toll's  great  Spirit,  from  the  dead 

Returned  to  animate  an  age  forlorn  ? 

He  comes  like  Phoebus  through  the  gates  of  mom 

When  dreary  •darkness  is  discomfited, 


SONNETS.  91 

Yet  mark  his  modest  state  !  upon  his  head, 
That  simple  crest,  a  heron's  plume,  is  worn. 
0  Liberty !  they  stagger  at  the  shock 
From  van  to  rear,  —  and  with  one  mind  would  flee, 
But  half  their  host  is  buried  :  —  rock  on  rock 
Descends :  —  beneath  this  godlike  Warrior,  see  ! 
Hills,  torrents,  woods,  embodied  to  bemock 
Tlie  Tyrant,  and  confound  his  cruelty. 


X. 


Advance,  come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean  ground, 
Dear  Liberty  !  stern  Nymph  of  soul  untamed  ; 
Sweet  Nymph,  0  rightly  of  the  mountains  named  ! 
Through  the  long  chain  of  Alps  from  mound  to 

mound 
And  o'er  the  eternal  snows,  hke  Echo,  bound ; 
Like  Echo,  when  the  hunter  train  at  dawn 
Have  roused  her  from  her  sleep :  and  forest-lawn, 
Cliffs,  woods,  and  caves,  her  viewless  steps  resound, 
And  babble  of  her  pastime !  —  On,  dread  Power ! 
With  such  invisible  motion  speed  thy  flight, 
Through  hanging  clouds,  from  craggy  height  to 

height, 
Through  the  green  vales  and  through  the  her<l3- 

man's  bower, 
That  all  the  Alps  may  gladden  in  thy  might. 
Here,  there,  and  in  all  places  at  one  hour. 


32  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XI. 

FEELINGS  OF   THE   TYKOLESE. 

The  Land  we  from  our  fathers  had  in  trust. 

And  to  our  children  will  transmit,  or  die : 

This  is  our  maxim,  this  our  piety  ; 

And  God  and  Nature  say  that  it  is  just. 

riiat  which  we  would  perform  in  arms,  —  we  must 

We  read  the  dictate  in  the  infant's  eye  ; 

In  the  wife's  smile  ;  and  in  tiie  placid  sky ; 

And,  at  our  feet,  amid  the  silent  dust 

Of  them  that  were  before  us.  —  Sing  aloud 

Old  songs,  the  precious  music  of  the  heai't ! 

Give,  herds  and  flocks,  your  voices  to  the  wind  ! 

While  we  go  forth,  a  self-devoted  crowd, 

With  weapons  grasped  in  fearless  hands,  to  assert 

Our  virtue,  and  to  vindicate  mankind. 


XII. 


Alas  !  what  boots  the  long,  laborious  quest 
Of  moral  prudence,  sought  through  good  and  ill ; 
Or  pains  abstruse,  to  elevate  the  will. 
And  lead  us  on  to  that  transcendent  rest 
Whore  every  passion  shall  the  sway  attest 
Of  Reason,  seated  on  her  sovereign  hill ; 
Wiiat  is  it  but  a  vain  and  curious  skill. 
If  sajnent  Gei'niany  must  lie  deprest 


SONNETS.  93 

Beneath  the  brutal  SAVord? — Her  haughty  Schools 
Shall  blush  ;  and  may  not  we  with  sorrow  say, 
A  few  strong  instincts  and  a  few  plain  rules, 
Among  the  herdsmen  of  the  Alps,  have  wroughl 
More  for  mankind  at  this  unhappy  day 
Than  all  the  pride  of  intellect  and  thought  ? 


XIII. 

And  is  it  among  rude,  untutored  Dales, 
There,  and  there  only,  that  the  heart  is  true  ? 
And,  rising  to  repel  or  to  subdue. 
Is  it  by  rocks  and  woods  that  man  prevails  ? 
All  no  !  though  Nature's  dread  protection  fails, 
There  is  a  bulwark  in  the  soul.     This  knew 
Iberian  Burghers  when  the  sword  they  drew 
In  Zaragoza,  naked  to  the  gales 
Of  fiercely  breathing  war.     The  trutli  was  felt 
By  Palafox,  and  many  a  brave  compeer, 
Like  him  of  noble  birth  and  noble  mind  ; 
By  ladies,  meek-eyed  women  without  fear  : 
And  wandei'crs  of  the  street,  to  whom  is  dealt 
The  bread  which  without  industry  tliey  find. 


XIV. 

■">'r,R  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain, 
Dwells  in  the  affections  and  the  soul  of  man 


94  POEMS    OF    TUE    IMAGINATION 

A  Godhead,  like  the  universal  Pan  ; 

But  more  exalted,  with  a  brighter  train  : 

And  shall  his  bounty  be  dispensed  in  vain, 

Showered  equally  on  city  and  on  field, 

And  neither  hope  nor  steadfast  promise  yield 

In  these  usurping  times  of  fear  and  jiain  ? 

ISuch  doom  awaits  us.     Nay,  forbid  it  Heaven  ' 

We  know  the  arduous  strife,  the  eternal  laws 

To  wliich  the  triumph  of  all  good  is  given, 

High  sacrifice,  and  labor  without  pause, 

E  ven  to  the  death :  —  else  wherefore  should  the  eye 

Of  man  converse  with  immortality  ? 


XV. 

ON  THE   FINAL    SUBMISSION   OF   THE  TYKOLESE. 

It  was  a  moral  end  for  which  they  fought ; 

Else  how,  when  mighty  Thrones  were  put  to  shame, 

Could  they,  poor  Shepherds,  have  preserved  an  aim, 

A  resolution,  or  enlivening  thought  ? 

jXor  hath  tliat  moral  good  been  vainly  sought ; 

For  in  their  magnanimity  and  fame 

Powers  have  they  left,  an  impulse,  and  a  claim 

Which  neither  can  be  overturned  nor  bought. 

Sleep,  Warriors,  sleep !  among  your  hills  repose ! 

We  know  that  ye,  beneath  the  stern  control 

Of  awful  prudence,  keep  the  unvanquished  soul : 

And  when,  impatient  of  her  guilt  and  woes, 

Europe  breaks  forth ;  then,  Shepherds !  shall  ye  rise 

For  perfect  triumph  o'er  youi-  Enemies. 


SONNETS.  95 


XVI. 


Hail,  Zaragoza !     If  with  uinvet  eye 
We  can  approach,  thy  sorrow  to  behold, 
Yet  is  the  heart  not  pitiless  nor  cold ; 
Such  spectacle  demands  not  tear  or  sigh. 
These  desolate  remains  are  trophies  high 
Of  more  than  martial  courage  in  the  breast 
Of  peaceful  civic  virtue  :  they  attest 
Thy  matchless  worth  to  all  posterity. 
Blood  flowed  before  thy  sight  without  remorse ; 
Disease  consumed  thy  vitals  ;  War  upheaved 
The  ground  beneath  thee  with  volcanic  force  : 
Dread  trials  !  yet  encountered  and  sustained 
Till  not  a  wreck  of  help  or  hope  remained, 
And  law  was  from  necessity  received. 


XVII. 

Sat,  what  is  Honor  ?  —  'T  is  the  finest  sense 
Oi justice  which  the  human  mind  can  frame, 
Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  disclaim, 
And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all  offence 
Suffered  or  done.     Wlien  lawless  violence 
Invades  a  Realm,  so  pressed  that  in  the  scale 
Of  perilous  war  her  weightiest  armies  fail. 
Honor  is  hopeful  elevation,  —  whence 
Glory  and  triumph.     Yet  witli  politic  skill 
Endangered  States  may  yield  to  terms  unjust; 


90  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGIXATIOX. 

Stoop  their  proud  heads,  but  not  unto  the  dust, 
A  Foe's  most  favorite  purpose  to  fulfil : 
HapjDj  occasions  oft  by  self-mistrust 
Ai'e  forfeited  ;  but  infiimy  doth  kilL 


XVIII. 

The  martial  courage  of  a  day  is  vain, 
An  empty  noise  of  death  the  battle's  roar, 
If  vital  hope  be  wanting  to  restore. 
Or  fortitude  be  wanting  to  sustain, 
Ai-mies  or  kingdoms.     We  have  heard  a  strain 
Of  triumph,  how  the  laboring  Danube  bore 
A  weight  of  hostile  corses  :  drenched  with  gore 
"Were  the  wide  fields,  the  hamlets  heaped  with  slain. 
Yet  see,  (the  mighty  tumult  overpast,) 
Austria  a  Daughter  of  her  Throne  hath  sold  ! 
And  her  Tyrolean  Champion  we  behold 
Murdered,  like  one  ashore  by  shipwreck  cast, 
Murdered  without  rehef.     Oh  !  bUnd  as  bold. 
To  think  that  such  assurance  can  stand  fast ! 


XIX. 

Brave  Schill !  by  death  delivered,  take  thy  flight 

From  Prussia's  timid  region.     Go,  and  rest 

With  heroes,  'mid  the  islands  of  the  Blest, 

Or  in  the  fields  of  empyrean  light. 

A  meteor  wert  thou  crossing  a  dark  night : 


SONNETS.  97 

Yel  shall  thj  name,  conspicuous  and  sublime, 

Stand  in  the  spacious  firmament  of  time, 

Fixed  as  a  star :  such  glory  is  thy  right. 

Alas !  It  may  not  be  :  for  earthly  fame 

Is  Fortune's  frail  dependant ;  yet  there  lives 

A  Judge,  who,  as  man  claims  by  merit,  gives ; 

To  whose  all-pondering  mind  a  noble  aim, 

Faithfully  kept,  is  as  a  noble  deed ; 

In  whose  pure  sight  all  virtue  doth  succeed. 


XX. 


Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate. 
Who  never  did  to  Fortune  bend  the  knee  ; 
Wlio  slighted  fear  ;  rejected  steadfastly 
Temptation  ;  and  whose  kingly  name  and  state 
Have  "  perished  by  his  choice,  and  not  his  fate  " 
Hence  lives  he,  to  his  inner  self  endeared ; 
And  hence,  wherever  virtue  is  revered, 
He  sits  a  more  exalted  Potentate, 
Throned  in  the  hearts  of  men.     Should  Heaven 

ordain 
That  this  great  servant  of  a  righteous  cause 
Must  still  have  sad  or  vexing  thoughts  to  endure, 
Tet  may  a  sympathizing  spirit  pause, 
Admonishf^d  by  these  truths,  and  quench  all  pain 
In  thankful  joy  and  gratulation  pure.* 

*  See  note  to  Sonnet  VII.,  page  68. 

COL.    III.  7 


38  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXI. 

Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  Avho  hath  paid 
His  vows  to  Fortune  ;  who,  in  cruel  shght 
Of  virtuous  hope,  of  Uberty,  and  right, 
Hath  followed  wheresoe'er  a  way  was  made 
By  the  blind  Goddess,  —  ruthless,  undismayed  ; 
And  so  hath  gained  at  length  a  prosperous  height, 
Round  which  the  elements  of  woi"ldIy  might 
Beneath  his  haughty  feet,  like  clouds,  are  laid. 
0  joyless  power  that  stands  by  lawless  force ! 
Curses  are  his  dii'e  portion,  scorn,  and  hate. 
Internal  darkness  and  unquiet  breath  ; 
And,  if  old  judgments  keep  their  sacred  course, 
Him  from  that  height  shall  Heaven  precipitate 
By  violent  and  ignominious  death. 


XXII. 

Is  there  a  power  that  can  sustain  and  cheer 
The  captive  chieftain,  by  a  tyrant's  doom. 
Forced  to  descend  into  his  destined  tomb,  — 
A  dungeon  dark  !  where  he  must  waste  the  year, 
And  he  cut  off  from  all  his  heart  holds  dear, 
What  time  his  injured  country  is  a  stage 
"Whereon  deliberate  Valor  and  the  rage 
Of  righteous  Vengeance  side  by  side  appear, 
Filling  from  morn  to  night  the  heroic  scene 


SONNETS.  99 

With  deeds  of  hope  and  everlasting  praise ;  — 
Say,  can  he  tliinlc  of  tliis  with  mind  serene 
And  silent  fetters  ?     Yes,  if  visions  bright 
Shine  on  his  soul,  reflected  from  the  days 
When  he  himself  was  tried  in  open  light. 


xxui. 

1810. 

Ah  !  where  is  Palafox  ?     Nor  tongue  nor  pen 
Reports  of  him,  his  dwelling  or  his  grave  ! 
Does  yet  the  unheard-of  vessel  ride  the  wave  ? 
Or  is  she  swallowed  up,  remote  from  ken 
Of  pitying  human-nature  ?     Once  again 
Methinks  that  we  shall  hail  thee.  Champion  brave, 
Redeemed  to  baffle  that  imperial  Slave, 
And  through  all  Europe  cheer  desponding  men 
"With  new-born  hope.     Unbounded  is  the  might 
Of  martyrdom,  and  fortitude,  and  right. 
Hark,  how  thy  Country  triumphs !  —  Smilingly 
The  Eternal  looks  upon  her  sword  that  gleams, 
Like  his  own  lightning,  over  mountains  high,, 
On  rampart,  and  the  banks  of  all  her  streams. 


XXIV. 

IN  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite, 

The  rude  Biscayans,  when  their  children  lie 


100  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 

Dead  in  the  sinless  time  of  infancy, 
Attire  the  peaceful  corse  in  vestments  wliite ; 
And,  in  like  sign  of  cloudless  triumph  bright, 
They  bind  the  unoffending  creature's  brows 
With  happy  garlands  of  the  pure  white  rose  : 
Then  do  a  festal  company  unite 
In  choral  song ;  and,  while  the  uplifted  cross 
Of  Jesus  goes  before,  the  child  is  borne 
Uncovered  to  his  grave  :  't  is  closed,  —  her  loss 
The  Mother  then  mourns,  as  she  needs  must  mourn  j 
But  soon,  through  Christian  faith,  is  grief  subdued ; 
And  joy  returns,  to  brighten  fortitude. 


XXV. 

KKELINGS    OF   A    NOBLE    BISCAYAN    aT    QUE    OF    TH08S 
FUNEKALS. 

1810. 

Yet,  yet,  Biscayans  !  we  must  meet  our  Foes 

With  firmer  soul,  yet  labor  to  regain 

Our  ancient  freedom  ;  else 't  were  worse  than  vain 

To  gather  round  the  bier  these  festal  shows. 

A  garland  fashioned  of  the  pure  white  rose 

Becomes  not  one  whose  father  is  a  slave : 

O,  bear  the  infant  covered  to  his  grave  ! 

These  venerable  mountains  now  inclose 

A  people  sunk  in  apathy  and  fear. 

If  this  endure,  farewell,  for  us,  all  good  ! 

The  awful  light  of  heavenly  innocence 


SONNETS.  101 

Will  fail  to  illuminate  the  infant's  bier  ; 

A.nd  guilt  and  sliame,  from  which  is  no  defence, 

Descend  on  all  that  issues  from  our  blood. 


XXVI. 

TUE  OAK   OF   GUERNICA. 

The  ancient  oak  of  Guernica,  says  Laborde  in  his  account 
of  Biscay,  is  a  most  venerable  natural  monument.  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  in  the  year  1476,  after  hearing  mass  in  the  church 
of  Santa  ]\Iaria  de  la  Antigua,  repaired  to  this  tree,  under 
which  they  s\vore  to  the  Biscayans  to  maintain  their  fueroi 
(privileges).  What  other  interest  belongs  to  it  in  the  minds 
of  tliis  people  will  appear  from  the  following 

SUPPOSED   ADDRESS   TO   T}IE   SAME.      1810. 

Oak  of  Guernica  !  Tree  of  holier  power 
Than  that  which  in  Dodona  did  enshrine 
(So  faith  too  fondly  deemed)  a  voice  divine, 
Heard  from  the  depths  of  its  aerial  bower, 
How  canst  thou  flourish  at  this  blighting  hour  ? 
What  hope,  what  joy,  can  sunshine  bring  to  thee, 
Or  the  soft  breezes  from  the  Atlantic  sea, 
The  dews  of  morn,  or  April's  tender  shower  ? 
Stroke  merciful  and  welcome  would  that  be 
Wliich  should  extend  thy  branches  on  the  ground, 
If  never  more  within  their  shady  round 
Those  lofty-minded  Lawgivers  shall  meet, 
Peasant  and  lord,  in  their  appointed  seat, 
jruardians  of  Biscay's  ancient  liberty. 


102  POEMS    OF    THE    lilAGLNATIQN. 


XXVII. 

INDIGNATION  OF   A   HIGH-BIINDED   SPANIARD. 

1810. 

We  can  endure  that  he  should  waste  our  lands, 
Despoil  our  temples,  and  by  sword  and  flame 
Return  us  to  the  dust  from  which  we  came ; 
Such  food  a  Tyrant's  appetite  demands  : 
And  we  can  brook  the  thought  that  by  his  hands 
Spain  may  be  overpowered,  and  he  possess. 
For  his  delight,  a  solemn  wilderness 
Where  all  the  brave  he  dead.    But  when  of  bands 
Which  he  will  break  for  us  he  dai*es  to  speak. 
Of  benefits,  and  of  a  future  day 
When  our  enlightened  minds  shall  bless  his  sway  ; 
Then,  the  strained  heart  of  fortitude  proves  weak  ; 
Our  groans,  our  blushes,  our  pale  cheeks,  declare 
That  he  has  power  to  inflict  what  we  lack  strength 
to  bear. 


XXVIII. 

AvAUNT  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind 

la  men  of  low  degree,  all  smooth  pretence ! 

I  better  like  a  blunt  indifl'erence, 

And  self-respecting  slowness,  disinclined 

Co  win  me  at  fii'st  sight :  and  be  there  joined 

Patience  and  temperance  with  this  high  reserve, 


SONNETS.  10^ 

limor  that  knows  the  path  and  will  not  swerve, 
Affections,  which,  if  put  to  proof,  are  kind, 
And  piety  towards  God.     Such  men  of  old 
Were  England's  native  growth  ;  and,  throughout 

Spain, 
(Thanks  to  high  God  !)  forests  of  such  remain : 
Then  for  that  Country  let  our  hopes  be  bold  ; 
For  matched  with  these  shall  PoUcy  prove  vain, 
Her  arts,  her  strength,  her  iron,  and  her  gold. 


XXIX. 

1810. 

O'erweening  Statesmen  have  fuU  long  relied 
On  fleets  and  armies,  and  external  wealth  : 
But  from  within  proceeds  a  Nation's  health  ; 
Which  shall  not  fail,  though  poor  men  cleave  with 

pride 
To  the  paternal  floor ;  or  turn  aside. 
In  the  thronged  city,  from  the  walks  of  gain, 
As  being  all  unworthy  to  detain 
A  Soul  by  contemplation  sanctified. 
There  are  who  cannot  languish  in  this  strife 
Spaniards  of  every  rank,  by  whom  the  good 
Of  such  high  course  was  felt  and  understood ; 
Who  to  their  Country's  cause  have  bound  a  life 
Erewhile,  by  solemn  consecration,  given 
To  labor  and  to  prayer,  to  nature  and  to  heaven.* 

"^  .See  Labordc's  character  of  the  Spanisli  people;  from  him 
■ri«  -eiitimi  'it  of  t!)'.-.^  last  two  lines  is  taken. 


104  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XXX. 

THE   FRENCH   AND   THE   SPANISH   GUERILLAS. 

Hunger,  and  sultry  heat,  and  nipping  blast 
From  bleak  hill-top,  and  length  of  march  by  night 
Through  heavy  swamp,  or  over  snow-clad  height,  — 
These  hardships  ill-sustained,  these  dangers  past, 
The  roving  Spanish  Bands  are  reached  at  last_; 
Charged,  and  dispersed  like  foam :  but  as  a  flight 
Of  scattered  quails  by  signs  do  reunite. 
So  these,  —  and,  heard  of  once  again,  are  chased 
With  combinations  of  long-practised  art 
And  newly-kindled  hope  ;  but  they  are  fled,  — 
Gone  are  they,  viewless  as  the  buried  dead : 
Wliere  now  ?  —  Their  sword  is  at  the  Foeman's 

heart ! 
And  thus  from  year  to  year  his  walk  they  thwart, 
And  hang  hke  di'eams  around  his  guilty  bed. 

XXXI. 

SPANISH   GUERILLAS. 

ISll. 

They  seek,  are  sought;  to  daily  battle  led, 
Shrink  not,  though  far  outnumbered  by  their  Foes, 
For  they  have  learnt  to  open  and  to  close 
The  ridges  of  grim  war ;  and  at  their  head 
Are  captairs  such  as  erst  their  country  bred 


SONNETS.  105 

Dr  fostered,  self-supported  cliiefs,  —  like  those 
Whom  hai'dy  Rome  was  fearful  to  oppose  ; 
Whose  desperate  shock  the  Carthaginian  fled. 
In  one  who  lived  unknown  a  shepherd's  Ufe 
Redoubted  Viriatus  breathes  again  ; 
And  Mina,  noui-ished  in  the  studious  shade, 
With  that  great  Leader  *  vies,  who,  sick  of  strife 
And  bloodshed,  longed  in  quiet  to  be  laid 
Li  some  green  island  of  the  western  main. 


XXXII 

1811. 

The  power  of  Armies  is  a  visible  thing, 
Formal,  an<l  circumscribed  in  time  and  space  ; 
But  who  the  limits  of  that  power  shall  trace 
Which  a  brave  people  into  light  can  bring 
Or  hide,  at  will,  —  for  freedom  combating 
By  just  revenge  inflamed  ?     No  foot  may  chase. 
No  eye  can  follow,  to  a  fatal  place 
That  power,  that  spirit,  whether  on  the  wing 
Like  the  strong  wind,  or  sleeping  hke  the  wind 
Within  its  awful  caves.  —  From  year  to  year 
Springs  this  indigenous  produce  far  and  near ; 
No  craft  this  subtle  element  can  bind. 
Rising  like  water  from  the  soil,  to  find 
Tn  e-'ery  nook  a  lip  that  it  may  cheer. 

♦  Sertorius 


106  POEMS    OF    THK    131AGINATI0N. 

XXXIII. 
1811. 

Here  pause :  the  poet  claims  at  leabt  this  praise, 

That  virtuous  Liberty  hath  been  the  scope 

Of  his  pure  song,  which  did  not  slirink  from  hope 

In  the  worst  moment  of  these  evil  days  ; 

From  hope,  the  paramount  duty  that  Heaven  lays, 

For  its  own  honor,  on  man's  suffering  heart. 

Never  may  from  our  souls  one  truth  depart,  — 

That  an  accursed  thing  it  is  to  gaze 

On  prosperous  tyrants  with  a  dazzled  eye  ; 

Nor  —  touched  with  due  abhorrence  of  tkeir  guilt 

For  whose  dire  ends  tears  flow,  and  blood  is  spilt, 

And  justice  labors  in  extremity  — 

Forget  thy  weakness,  upon  which  is  built, 

0  wretched  man,  the  throne  of  tyranny  ! 


XXXIV. 

THE    FRENCH    ARMY    IN    RUSSIA. 
1812-13. 

HuiiANiTT,  delighting  to  behold 
A  fond  reflection  of  her  own  decay, 
Hath  painted  Winter  like  a  traveller  old, 
Propped  on  a  staff,  and,  through  the  sullen  day, 


THE    FRENCH    ARMY    IN     RUSSIA.  107 

In  hooded  mantle,  limping  o'ei"  the  plain, 
A.S  though  his  weakness  \tere  disturbed  by  pain: 
Or,  if  a  juster  fancy  should  allow 
An  undisputed  symbol  of  command, 
The  chosen  sceptre  is  a  withered  bough, 
Infirmly  grasped  within  a  palsied  hand. 
These  emblems  suit  the  helpless  and  forlorn; 
But  mighty  Winter  the  device  shall  scorn. 

For  he  it  was,  dread  Winter !  who  beset. 
Flinging  round  van  and  rear  his  ghastly  net, 
That  host,  when  from  the  regions  of  the  Pole 
They  shrunk,  insane  ambition's  barren  goal,  — 
That  host,  as  huge  and  strong  as  e'er  defied 
Their  God,  and  placed  their  trust  in  human  pride  ! 
As  fathers  jjersecute  rebellious  sons. 
He  smote  the  blossoms  of  their  warrior  youtli ; 
He  called  on  Frost's  inexorable  tooth 
Life  to  consume  in  ]\Ianhood's  firmest  hold ; 
Xor  spared  the  reverend  blood  that  feebly  runs ; 
For  why,  —  unless  for  liberty  enrolled 
And  sacred  home,  —  ali !  why  should  hoary  Age 
be  bold  ? 
Fleet  the  Tartar's  reinless  steed. 
But  fleeter  far  the  pinions  of  the  Wind, 
Which  from  Siberian  caves  the  Monarch  freed. 
And  sent  him  forth,  with  squadrons  of  his  kind, 
And  bade  the  Snow  their  ample  backs  bestride, 

And  to  the  battle  ride. 
No  pitying  voice  commands  a  halt. 


108  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

No  courage  can  repel  the  dire  assault ; 
Distracted,  spiritless,  benumbed,  and  blind, 
Whole  legions  sink,  —  and,  in  one  inj^tant,  find 
Burial  and  death  :  look  for  them,  —  and  descry, 
\Yhen  morn  returns,  beneath  the  clear,  blue  sky, 
A  soundless  waste,  a  trackless  vacancy ! 


XXXV. 

ON  THE   S^VME  OCCASION. 

Ye  Storms,  resound  the  praises  of  your  King  ! 
And  ye,  mild  Seasons,  —  in  a  sunny  clime, 
Midway  on  some  high  hill,  wliile  Father  Time 
Looks  on  delighted,  —  meet  in  festal  ring. 
And  loud  and  long  of  Winter's  triumph  sing  ! 
Sing  ye,  with  blossoms  crowned,  and  fruit,  and 

flowers. 
Of  Winter's  breath  surcharged  with  sleety  showers, 
And  the  dire  flapping  of  liis  hoary  wing ! 
Knit  the  blithe  dance  upon  the  soft  green  grass  ; 
With  feet,  hands,  eyes,  looks,  lips,  report  your  gain  ; 
Whisper  it  to  the  billows  of  the  main, 
And  to  the  aerial  zephyrs  as  they  pass, 
That  old  decrepit  Winter,  —  He  hath  slain 
Tliat  Host,  which  rendered  all  your  bounties  vain  ! 


SONNETS.  109 


XXXVI. 

By  Moscow  self-devoted  to  a  blaze 

Of  dreadful  sacrifice  ;  by  Russian  blood 

Lavished  in  fight  with  desperate  hardihood  ; 

The  unfeeling  Elements  no  claim  shall  raise 

To  rob  our  Human-nature  of  just  praise 

For  what  she  did  and  suffered.     Pledges  sure 

Of  a  deliverance  absolute  and  pure 

She  gave,  if  Faith  might  tread  the  beaten  ways 

Of  Providence.     But  now  did  the  Most  High 

Exalt  his  still,  small  voice,  —  to  quell  that  Host 

Gathered  his  power,  a  manifest  ally  ; 

He,  whose  heaped  waves  confounded  the  proud  boast 

Of  Pharaoh,  said  to  Famine,  Snow,  and  Frost, 

"  Finish  the  strife  by  deadliest  victory  !  " 


xxxvii. 

THE   GERMANS  O^   THE   HEIGHTS  OF    HOCKHEIM. 

Abruptly  paused  the  strife ; —  the  field  throughout. 
Resting  upon  his  arms,  each  warrior  stood, 
Checked  in  the  very  act  and  deed  of  blood. 
With  breath  suspended,  hke  a  listening  scout. 
0  Silence  !  thou  wert  mother  of  a  shout 
That  through  the  texture  of  yon  azure  dome 
C'leaves  its  glad  way,  a  cry  of  harvest-home 
Uttered  to  Heaven  in  ecstasy  devout ! 


110  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

riie  barrier  Rhine  hath  flashed,  through  battle- 
smoke, 
On  men  who  gaze  heart-smitten  by  the  view, 
As  if  all  Germany  had  felt  the  shock  ! 
—  Fly,  wretched  Gauls!  ere  they  the  charge  renew 
Who  have  seen  —  themselves  now  casting  off  the 

yoke — 
The  unconquerable  Stream  his  course  pursue. 


XXXVIII. 

NOVEMBER,    1813. 

NovT  that  all  hearts  are  glad,  aU  faces  bright. 
Our  aged  Sovereign  sits,  to  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  states  and  kingdoms,  to  their  joy  or  woe. 
Insensible.     He  sits  deprived  of  sight. 
And  lamentably  wrapped  in  twofold  night, 
Whoni  no  weak  hopes  deceived ;  whose  mind  ensued, 
Through  perilous  war,  with  regal  fortitude. 
Peace  that  should  claim  respect  from  lawless  Might 
Dread  King  of  kings,  vouchsafe  a  ray  divine 
To  his  forlorn  condition  !  let  thy  gi-ace 
Upon  his  inner  soul  in  mercy  shine  ; 
Permit  his  heart  to  kindle,  and  to  embrace 
(Tliough  it  were  only  for  a  moment's  space) 
The  triumphs  of  this  hour  ;  for  they  are  Thine  I 


ODE.  1  1  1 

XXXIX. 

ODE. 

1814. 

Carmina  possumua 
Bonare,  et  pretium  dicere  muneri. 
Noil  iiicisa  notis  muniiora  publicis, 
Per  quae  spiritus  et  vita  redit  bonis 

Post  mortem  ducibus 

clarius  indicaut 

Laudes,  quam Pierides ;  ueque, 

Si  chartae  sileant  quod  bene  feceris, 
Mercedem  tulerls.  —  Hok.  Car.  8,  Lib.  4. 

I. 

When  tlie  soft  hand  of  sleep  had  closed  the  latch 
On  the  tired  household  of  corporeal  sense, 
And  Fancy,  keeping  unreluctant  watch, 
Was  free  her  choicest  favors  to  dispense  ; 
I  saw,  in  wondrous  perspective  displayed, 
A  landscape  more  august  than  happiest  sivill 
Of  pencil  ever  clothed  with  hght  and  shade": 
An  intermingled  pomp  of  vale  and  hill. 
City,  and  naval  stream,  suburban  grove, 
And  stately  forest  where  the  wild  deer  rove  ; 
Nor  wanted  lurking  hamlet,  dusky  towns. 
And  scattered  rural  farms  of  aspect  bright : 
And,  here  and  there,  between  the  j)astoral  downs, 
The  azui-e  sea  ups welled  upon  the  sight. 
Fair  prospect,  such  as  Britain  only  shows ! 
But  not  a  living  creature  could  be  seen 


112  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Through  its  wide  circuit,  that,  in  deep  repose. 
And  even  to  sadness,  lonely  and  serene, 
Lay  hushed  ;  till  —  tlirough  a  jjortal  in  the  sky 
Brighter  than  hrightest  loop-hoL,  in  a  storm, 
Opening  hefore  the  sun's  triumphant  eye,  — 
Issued,  to  sudden  view,  a  glorious  Form ! 
Earthward  it  gUded  with  a  swift  descent ; 
JSaint  George  liimself"  this  Visitant  must  be  ; 
And,  ere  a  thought  could  ask  on  what  intent 
He  sought  the  regions  of  humanity, 
A  thrilling  voice  was  heard,  that  vivified 
City  and  field  and  flood  ;  —  aloud  it  cried  :  — 

"  Though  from  my  celestial  liome. 
Like  a  Champion,  armed  I  come, 
On  my  helm  the  dragon  crest. 
And  the  red  cross  on  my  breasr, 
I,  the  Guardian  of  tliis  Land, 
Speak  not  now  of  toilsome  duty  ; 
Well  ol>eyed  was  that  command,  — 
Whence  bright  days  of  festive  beauty ; 

Haste,  Virgins,  haste  !  —  the  flowers  which  sum- 
mer gave 
Have  pei'ished  in  the  field  ; 

But  the  green  thickets  plenteously  shall  yield 
Fit  garlands  for  the  brave, 

That  will  be  welcome,  if  by  you  entwined ; 

Haste,  Virgins,  haste  !  and  you,  ye  Matrons  grave, 

Go  forth  Avith  rival  usefulness  of  mind. 
And  gather  what  ye  find 


ODE.  1'3 

Of  hardy  laurel  and  wild  holly  boughs, 

To  deck  your  stern  Defsnders'  modest  browa  1 

Such  simple  gifts  prepare, 
Though  they  have  gained  a  worthier  meed  ; 

And  in  due  time  shall  share 
Those  palms  and  amaranthine  wreaths 
Unto  their  martyred  Countrymen  decreed, 
In  reahus  where  everlasting  freshness  breathes  !  " 

n. 

And  lo!  with  crimson  banners  proudly  streaming, 
And  upright  weapons  innocently  gleaming, 
Along  the  surface  of  a  spacious  plain 
Advance  in  order  the  redoubted  Bands, 
And  there  receive  green  chaplets  from  the  hands 

Of  a  fair  female  train,  — 

Maids  and  Matrons,  dight 

In  robes  of  dazzUng  wliite  ; 
While  from  the  crowd  bursts  forth  a  rapturous  noise. 

By  the  cloud-capt  hills  retorted ; 

And  a  throng  of  rosy  boys 

In  loose  fashion  tell  their  joys  ; 
And  gray-haired  sires,  on  staffs  supported, 
Look  round,  and  by  their  smiling  seem  to  say, 
Thus  strives  a  grateful  Country  to  display 
Tlie  mighty  debt  which  nothing  can  repay  ^ 

m. 

Anon  before  my  sight  a  palace  rose 
fiuiit  of  all  precious  substances,  —  so  pure 

VOL.  III.  8 


Hi  POEilS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION'. 

And  exquisite,  tliat  sleep  alone  be>tows 

Ability  like  splendor  to  endure: 

Entered,  with  streaming  thousands,  through  the 

gate, 
I  saw  the  banquet  spread  beneath  a  Dome  of  state, 
A  lofty  Dome,  that  dared  to  emulate 
The  heaven  of  sable  night 
With  starry  lusti'e  ;  yet  had  power  to  throw 
Solemn  effulgence,  clear  as  solar  light, 
Upon  a  princely  company  below, 
While  the  vault  rang  with  choral  harmony, 
Like  some  Nymph-haunted  grot  beneath  the  roar- 
ing sea. 
•—  No  sooner  ceased  that  peal,  than  on  the  verge 
Of  exultation  hung  a  dirge 
Breathed  from  a  soft  and  lonely  instrument, 

That  kindled  recollections 

Of  agonized  affections  ; 
And,  though  some  tears  the  strain  attended, 

The  mournful  passion  ended 
In  peace  of  spirit,  and  sublime  content ! 

IV. 

But  garlands  wither  ;  festal  shows  dcijiart. 
Like  (li-eams  themselves ;  and  sweetest  sound 
(iUbeit  of  effect  profound) 
It  was,  —  and  it  is  gone  ! 
Victorious  England !  bid  the  silent  Art 
Reflect,  in  glowing  hues  that  shall  not  fade. 
Those  high  achievements  ;  even  as  she  ai-rayed 


ODE.  115 

^''illi  feecoiid  life  the  deed  of  Marathon 

Ui)on  Athenian  walls  ; 
So  may  she  laboi*  for  thy  civic  halls : 

And  be  the  guardian  spaces 

Of  consecrated  places 
As  nobly  graced  by  Sculpture's  patient  toil ; 
And  let  imperishable  Columns  rise, 
Fixed  in  the  depths  of  this  courageous  soil ; 
Expressive  signals  of  a  glorious  strife, 
And  competent  to  shed  a  spark  divine 
Into  the  torpid  breast  of  daily  life  ;  — 
Records  on  which,  for  pleasure  of  all  eyes, 

The  morning  sun  may  shine 
With  gratulation  thoroughly  benign  I 

V. 

And  ye,  Pierian  Sisters,  sprung  from  Jv^^'e 
And  sage  Mnemosyne,  —  full  long  debarred 
From  }Our  first  mansions,  exiled  all  too  long 
From  many  a  hallowed  stream  and  grove, 
Dear  native  regions  where  ye  wont  to  i-o\e. 
Chanting  for  patient  heroes  the  reward 

Of  never-dying  song ! 
Now  (for,  though  Truth  descending  from  above 
The  Olympian  summit  hath  destroyed  for  aye 
Your  kindred  Deities,  ye  Uve  and  move. 
Spared  for  obeisance  from  perpetual  love 
For  privilege  redeemed  of  godlike  sway) 
Now,  on  the  margin  of  some  spotless  fountain, 
Dr  top  serene  of  unmolested  mountain, 


116  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Strike  audibly  the  noblest  of  your  lyres, 
And  tor  a  moment  meet  the  soul's  desires  ! 
That  I,  or  some  more  favored  Bard,  may  hear 
Wliat  ye,  celestial  Maids  !  have  often  sung 
Of  Britain's  acts,  —  may  catch  it  with  rapt  ear, 
And  give  the  treasure  to  our  British  tongue ! 
So  shall  the  characters  of  that  proud  page 
Support  their  mighty  theme  from  age  to  age ; 
And,  in  the  desert  places  of  the  earth, 
When  they  to  future  empires  have  given  birth, 
So  shall  the  people  gather  and  beheve 
The  bold  report,  transferred  to  every  clime  ; 
And  the  whole  world,  not  envious,  but  admiring, 

And  to  the  like  aspiring. 
Own,  that  the  progeny  of  this  fair  Isle 
Had  power  as  lofty  actions  to  achieve 
As  were  performed  in  man's  heroic  prime  ; 
Nor  wanted,  when  their  fortitude  had  held 
Its  even  tenor,  and  the  foe  was  quelled, 
A  corresponding  virtue  to  beguile 
The  hostile  purpose  of  wide-wasting  Time, — 
'That  not  in  vain  they  labored  to  secure, 
For  their  great  deeds,  perpetual  memory, 
A  11(1  fame  as  largely  spread  as  land  and  sea. 
By  Works  ot  spirit  high  and  passion  pure  I 


SONNETS.  1 1 


XL. 


FBELINGS  OF   A   FRENCH   ROTALIST,  ON  THE  DISINTERMKVT 
OF  THE    REMAINS   OF   THE  DUC   D'ENGHIEN. 

Dear  Relics  !  from  a  pit  of  vilest  mould 
Uprisen,  to  lodge  among  ancestral  kings, 
And  to  inflict  shame's  salutary  stings 
On  the  remorseless  hearts  of  men  grown  old 
In  a  blind  worship,  —  men  perversely  bold 
Even  to  tills  hour, —  yet  some  shall  now  for>ake 
Their  monstrous  Idol,  if  the  dead  e'er  spake 
To  warn  the  living ;  if  truth  were  ever  told 
By  aught  redeemed  out  of  the  hollow  grave  : 
O  murdered  Prince  !  meek,  loyal,  pious,  brave  ! 
The  power  of  retribution  once  was  given  : 
But  't  is  a  rueful  thought,  that  willow  bands 
So  often  tie  the  thunder-wielding  hands 
Of  Justice  sent  to  earth  from  highest  Heaven  ! 


XLI. 
OCCASIONED    BY    THE  BATT1,E  OF   WATERIXW. 

(The  last  sis  lines  intended  for  an  inscription  ) 

lEBRUARY,    1816. 

iNTKKi-iD  sons  of  Albiou  !  not  by  you 

Is  life  despised  ;  ah  no  !  the  spacious  eaith 


i;8  POEMS    OF    THK    IMAGINAI 10^. 

Ne'er  saw  a  race  who  held,  bj  right  of  birth, 

So  many  objects  to  wlaich  love  is  due : 

Ye  slight  not  hfe,  —  to  God  and  Nature  true  ; 

But  death,  becoming  death,  is  dearer  far, 

Wlien  duty  bids  you  bleed  in  open  war : 

Hence  hath  your  prowess  quelled  that  impious  crew 

Heroes  !  —  for  instant  sacrifice  prepared, 

Yet  filled  with  ardor  and  on  triumph  bent 

IMid  direst  shocks  of  mortal  accident,  — 

To  you  who  fell,  and  you  whom  slaughter  spared 

To  guard  the  fallen,  and  consummate  the  event, 

Your  Country  rears  this  sacred  Monument ! 


XLII. 

81EGE   OF   VIENNA    RAISED    BY    JOHN    SOBIESKI. 
FEI5HUAKV,    1810. 

0  FOR  a  kindling  touch  from  tliat  pure  flame 

Which  ministered,  erewhile,  to  a  sacrifice 

Of  gratitude,  beneath  Italian  skies. 

In  words  like  these :  "  Up,  Voice  of  song !  proclaim 

Thy  saintly  rapture  with  celestial  aim  : 

For  lo  !  the  Imperial  City  stands  released 

From  bondage  threatened  by  the  embattled  East, 

And  Christendom  respires;  from  guilt  and  shame 

Redeemed,  from  miserable  fear  set  free, 

\\y  one  day's  feat,  one  mighty  victory. 

—  Ciiant  the  Deliverer's  praise  in  every  tongue ! 

The  crosS  shall  spread,  the  cres'vnt  hath  waxed  dim; 


SONNETS.  liy 

[le  conquering,  as  in  joyful  Heaven  is  sung, 

He  conquering  turough  God,  and  God  by 

HIM."  * 

XLIII. 

OCCASIONED   BT   THE    BATTLE   OF   WATERLOO. 
FEBRUARY,    1816. 

The  Bard,  —  whose  soul  is  meek  as  dawning  day, 

Yet  trained  to  judgments  righteously  severe, 

Fervid,  yet  conversant  with  holy  fear. 

As  recognizing  one  Almighty  sway  : 

He,  —  whose  experienced  eye  can  pierce  the  array 

Of  past  events  ;  to  whom,  in  vision  clear, 

The  aspiring  heads  of  future  things  ap[)ear. 

Like  mountain-tops  whose  mists  have  rolled  away, — 

Assoiled  from  all  encumbrance  of  our  time,t 

He  only,  if  such  breathe,  in  strains  devout 

Shall  comprehend  this  victory  sublime ; 

Shall  worthily  i-ehearse  the  hideous  rout, 

The  triumph  hail,  which  from  their  peaceful  clime 

Angels  might  welcome  with  a  choral  shout ! 

XLIV. 

E:mperors  and  Kings,  how  oft  have  temples  rung 
With  impious  thanksgiving,  the  Almighty's  scorn  ! 

*  See  Filicaia's  Ode. 

t  "  Fvora  all  this  world's  encumbrance  did  himself  assoil." 

Sjienser. 


120  POEMS    OF    THE   IMAGINATION. 

How  oft  above  their  altars  have  been  huns: 
Trophies  that  led  the  good  and  wise  to  mourn 
Triumphant  wrong,  battle  of  battle  born, 
And  sorrow  that  to  fruitless  sorrow  clunsr ! 
Now,  from  Heaven-sanctioned  victory,  Peace  is 

sprung ;  \ 

In  this  firm  hour  Salvation  lifts  her  horn. 
Glory  to  arms !     But,  conscious  that  the  nerve 
Of  popular  reason,  long  mistrusted,  freed 
Your  thrones,  ye  Powers,  from  duty  fear  to  swerve  ! 
Be  just,  be  grateful ;  nor,  the  oppressor's  ci-eed 
Beviving,  heavier  chastisement  deserve 
1  han  ever  forced  unpitied  hearts  to  bleed. 


XLV. 
ODE. 

1815. 
I. 

T"MAP.TNATiON  —  ne'er  before  content, 
liut  aye  ascending,  restless  in  her  pride 
From  all  that  martial  feats  could  yield 
To  her  desires,  or  to  her  hopes  present  — 
Stooped  to  the  Victory,  on  that  Belgic  ficdd. 
A.<.'hieved,  this  closing  deed  magnificent, 
And  with  the  embrace  was  satisfied. 


ODE.  121 

FJy,  niiiiistei's  of  Fame, 
With  every  help  that  ye  from  eartli  and  heaven 

may  claim ! 
Bear  through  the  world  these  tidings  of  delight ! 
—  Hours,  Days,  and  Months  have  borne  them  in 

the  sight 
Of  mortals,  hurrying  hke  a  sudden  shower 
That  landward  stretches  from  the  sea, 
The  morning's  splendors  to  devour  ; 
But  this  swift  travel  scorns  the  company 
Of  irksome  change,  or  threats  from  saddening  power. 
—  The  shock  is  given,  the  Adversaries  bleed  ' 
Lo,  Justice  triumphs  !  Earth  is  freed  I 
Joyful  annunciation  !  —  it  went  forth,  — 
It  pierced  the  caverns  of  the  sluggish  North,  — 

It  found  no  barrier  on  the  ridge 
Of  Andes,  —  frozen  gulfs  became  its  bridge,  — 
Tiie  vast  Pacific  gladdens  with  the  freight,  — 
Upon  the  Lakes  of  Asia  't  is  bestowed,  — 
The  Arabian  desert  shapes  a  willing  i-oad 

Across  her  burning  bi'east. 
For  this  refreshing  incense  from  the  West !  — 

—  Where  snakes  and  lions  breed, 
^V■here  towns  and  cities  thick  as  stars  appear, 
AVherever  fruits  are  gathered,  and  where'er 
The  upturned  soil  receives  the  hopeful  seed, 
While  the  Sun  rules,  and  'cross  the  shades  of  night, 
Tlie  unwearied  arrow  hath  jjui-sued  its  flight ' 
The  eyes  of  good  men  thankfully  give  heed, 
And  in  its  sparkling  progress  read 


122  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Of  virtue  crowned  with  glory's  deathless  meed  : 

Tyrants  exult  to  hear  of  kingdoms  won, 

And  slaves  are  pleased  to  leaini  that  mighty  feat^i 

are  done ; 
Even  the  proud   Realm,  from   whose  distracted 

borders 
This  messenger  of  good  w^as  launched  in  air, 
France,  humbled  France,  amid  her  wild  disorders 
Feels,  and  hereafter  shall  the  truth  declare. 
That  she  too  lacks  not  reason  to  rejoice. 
And  utter  England's  name  with  sadly  plausive  voi  re. 

II. 

O  genuine  glory,  pure  renoAvn  ! 

And  well  might  it  beseem  that  mighty  Town 

Into  Avhose  bosom  earth's  best  treasures  flow, 

To  whom  all  persecuted  men  retreat, 

If  a  new  Temple  lift  her  votive  brow 

High  on  the  shore  of  silver  Thames,  to  greet 

The  peaceful  guest  advancing  from  afar. 

Bright  be  the  Fabric,  as  a  star 

Fresh  risen,  and  beautiful  within  !  —  there  meet 

Dependence  infinite,  proportion  just ; 

A  Pile  that  Grace  appi'oves,  and  Time  can  trust 

With  his  most  sacred  wealth,  heroic  dust. 

III. 
But  if  the  valiant  of  this  land 
Lm  reverential  modesty  demand, 
iTiat  all  observance,  due  to  them,  be  paid 
Where  their  serene  progenitors  are  laid; 


ODE.  123 

Kir,gs,  warriors,  high-souled  poets,  saint-like  sages, 
England's  illustrious  sons  of  long,  long  ages  ; 
P>e  it  not  unordained  that  solemn  rites, 
Within  the  circuit  of  those  Gothic  walls, 
Shall  be  performed  at  pregnant  intervals  ; 
Commemoration  holy  that  unites 
The  living  generations  with  the  dead ; 
By  the  deep,  soul-moving  sense 
Of  religious  eloquence,  — 
By  visual  pomp,  and  by  the  tie 
Of  sweet  and  threatening  harmony ; 
Soft  notes,  awful  as  the  omen 
Of  destructive  tempests  coming, 
And  escaping  from  that  sadness 
Into  elevated  gladness ; 
While  the  white-robed  choir  attendant, 
Under  mouldering  banners  pendant, 
Provoke  all  potent  symphonies  to  raise 

Songs  of  victory  and  praise, 
For  them  who  bravely  stood  unhurt,  or  bled 
With  medicable  wounds,  or  found  their  graves 
Upon  the  battle-field,  or  under  ocean's  waves  ; 
Or  were  conducted  home  in  single  state, 
And  long  procession,  —  there  to  lie. 
Where  their  sons'  sons,  and  all  posterity, 
Unheard  by  them,  their  deeds  shall  celebrate  ! 

IV. 

Nor  will  the  God  of  peace  and  love 
Such  martial  service  disapprove. 


124  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

He  guides  the  Pestilence,  the  cloud 
Of  locusts  travels  on  his  breath  ; 
The  region  that  in  hope  was  ploughed 
llis  drought  consumes,  his  mildew  taints  with  death; 

He  springs  the  hushed  Volcano's  mine, 
He  puts  the  Earthquake  on  her  still  design, 
Darkens  the  sun,  hath  bade  the  forest  sink, 
And,  th'inking  towns  and  cities,  still  can  drink 
Cities  and  towns  ;  —  'tis  Thou, — the  work  is  thhie 
The  fierce  Tornado  sleeps  within  thy  courts,  — 
He  hears  the  word,  —  he  flies,  — 
And  navies  perish  in  their  ports  : 
For  Thou  art  angry  with  thine  enemies  ! 

For  these,  and  mourning  for  our  errors, 
And  sins,  that  point  tlieir  terrors, 
We  bow  our  heads  before  Thee,  and  we  laud 
And  magnify  thy  name,  Almighty  God  ! 

But  Man  is  thy  most  awful  instrument, 
In  working  out  a  pure  intent ; 
Thou  cloth'st  the  wicked  in  their  dazzling  mail, 
And  for  thy  righteous  purpose  they  prevail ; 

Thine  arm  from  peril  guards  the  coasts 
Of  them  who  in  thy  laws  delight ; 
Thy  presence  turns  the  scale  of  doubtful  fight, 
'IVemendous  God  of  battles,  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 


Forbear  :  —  to  Thee, 
Fatlier  and  Judge  of  all,  with  fervent  tongue 
But  in  a  gentler  strain 


ODE.  125 

Df  contemplation,  by  no  sense  of  wrong  ' 

(Too  quick  and  keen)  incited  to  disdain 
Of  pity  pleading  from  the  heart  in  vain,  — 

To  Thee,  —  to  Thee, 
Just  God  of  Christianized  Humanity, 
Shall  praises  be  poured  forth,  and  thanks  ascend. 
That  thou  hast  brought  our  warfare  to  an  end. 
And  that  we  need  no  second  victory ! 
Blest,  above  measure  blest, 
If  on  thy  love  our  Land  her  hopes  shall  rest, 
And  all  the  Nations  labor  to  fulfil 
Thy  laAv,  and  live  henceforth  in  peace,  in  pure 
good-will. 


XL  VI. 

ODE. 

THE    MOKSIXG    OF  THE   DAY  APPOINTED    FOR   A   GENURAI. 
THANKSGIVING.      JANUAKV    18,    1816, 


Hail,  orient  Conqueror  of  gloomy  Night ! 
Thou  that  canst  shed  the  bhss  of  gratitude 
\'^n  hearts  howe'er  insensible  or  rude  ; 
^\''hether  thy  punctual  visitations  smite 
The  haughty  towers  where  monarchs  dwell , 
Or  thou,  impartial  Sun,  with  presence  bright, 


126  rOEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Che^r'st  the  low  threshold  of  the  peasant's  ctU  I 
Not  unrejoiced  I  see  thee  climb  the  sky 
In  naked  splendor,  clear  from  mist  or  haze, 
Or  cloud  approaching  to  divert  the  rays, 
Which  even  in  deepest  winter  testify 

Thy  power  and  majesty. 
Dazzling  the  vision  that  presumes  to  gaze. 

—  Well  does  thine  aspect  usher  in  this  Day ; 
As  aptly  suits  therewith  that  modest  pace 

Submitted  to  the  chains 
Tliat  bmd  thee  to  the  path  wliich  God  ordains 

That  thou  shalt  trace. 
Till,  with  the  heavens  and  eai'th,  thou  pass  away 
Nor  less  the  stillness  of  these  frosty  plains. 
Their  utter  stillness,  and  the  silent  gi'ace 
Of  yon  ethereal  summits  white  with  snow, 
CWhose  tranquil  pomp  and  spotless  purity 

Report  of  storms  gone  by 

To  us  who  tread  below,) 
Do  with  the  service  of  this  Day  accord. 

—  Divinest  Object  wliich  the  uplifted  eye 
Of  mortal  -man  is  suffered  to  behold  ; 
Thou,whoupon  those  snow-clad  Heightshast poured 
Meek  lustre,  nor  forget'st  the  humble  Vale ; 
Thou  who  dost  warm  Earth's  universal  mould, 
And  for  thy  bounty  wert  not  unadored 

By  pious  men  of  old  ; 
Once  more,  heart-cheering  Sun,  I  bid  thee  hail ! 
Bright  be  thy  course  to-day,  let  not  this  promise 

fail! 


ODE.  1 27 

n. 

INIid  the  deep  quiet  of  tliis  morning  hour, 
rVll  nature  seems  to  hear  me  while  I  speak, 
By  feelings  urged  that  do  not  vainly  seek 
Apt  lajiguage,  ready  as  the  tuneful  notes 
That  stream  in  blithe  succession  from  the  ihroats 

Of  birds,  in  leafy  bower, 
Warbling  a  farewell  to  a  vernal  shower. 
—  There  is  a  radiant  though  a  short-lived  flame, 
That  burns  for  Poets  in  the  dawning  east ; 
•And  oft  my  soul  hath  kindled  at  the  same, 
Wiien  the  captivity  of  sleep  had  ceased  ; 
But  He  who  fixed  immovably  the  frame 
Of  the  round  world,  and  built,  by  laws  as  strong, 

A  solid  refuge  for  disti*ess,  — 

The  towers  of  righteousness,  — 
He  knows  that  from  a  holier  altar  came 
The  quickening  spark  of  tliis  day's  sacrifice; 
Knows  that  the  source  is  nobler  whence  doth  rise 

The  current  of  this  matin  song ; 
That  deeper  far  it  lies 
Than  aught  dependent  on  the  fickle  skies. 

III. 

Have   we  not  conquered  ?  —  by  the   vengeful 
sword  ? 
Ah  no  !  by  dint  of  Magnanimity  ; 
That  curbed  the  baser  passions,  and  left  {"ree 
A  loyal  band  to  follow  their  liege  Lord, 
Clear-sighted  Honor,  and  his  staid  Compears, 


[23  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 

Along  a  truck  of  most  unnatural  years ; 
In  execution  of  heroic  deeds 
Whose  memory,  spotless  as  the  crystal  I>eads 
Of  morning  dew  upon  the  untrodden  meads, 
Shall  live  enrolled  above  the  starry  spheres. 
He  who,  in  concert  with  an  earthly  string, 

Of  Britain's  acts  would  sing, 

He  with  enraptured  voice  will  tell 
Of  one  whose  s\)int  no  reverse  could  quell ; 
Of  one  that  'mid  the  failing  never  failed  ;  — 
Who  paints  how  Britain  struggled  and  prevailed 
Shall  represent  her  laboi'ing  with  an  eye 

Of  circumspect  humanity ; 
Shall  show  her  clothed  with  strength  and  skill 

All  martial  duties  to  fulfil ; 
Firm  ns  a  rock  in  stationary  fight ; 
In  motion  rapid  as  the  lightning's  gleam  : 
Fierce  as  a  flood-gate  bursting  at  midnight 
To  rouse  the  wicked  from  their  giddy  dream,  — 
Woe,  wof  to  all  that  face  her  in  the  field  ! 
Appalled  she  may  not  be,  and  cannot  yield. 

IV. 

And  thus  is  missed  the  sole  true  glory 
That  can  belong  to  human  story ! 
At  which  they  only  shall  arrive 
Wlio  through  the  abyss  of  weakness  dive, 
rill  very  humblest  are  too  proud  of  heart ; 
An<l  one  brief  day  is  rightly  set  apart 
For  Him  who  liileth  up  and  layetli  low  ; 


ODE.  129 

For  that  Almighty  God  to  v\hom  we  owe, 
Say  not  that  we  have  vanquished,  —  but  that  we 
survive. 


How  dreadful  the  dominion  of  the  impure  ! 
"WTiy  should  the  Song  be  tardy  to  proclaim 
That  less  than  power  unbounded  could  not  tame 
That  soul  of  Evil,  —  which,  from  hell  let  loose, 
Had  filled  the  astonished  world  with  such  abuse 
As  boundless  patience  only  could  endure  ? 
—  Wide-wasted  regions,  —  cities  wrapt  in  flame, — 
Who  sees,  may  lift  a  streaming  eye 
To  Heaven  ;  —  who  never  saw,  may  heave  a  sigh; 
But  the  foundation  of  our  nature  shakes. 
And  with  an  infinite  pain  the  S])irit  aches. 
When  desolated  countries,  towns  on  fire, 

Are  but  the  avowed  attire 
Of  warfare  waged  witli  desperate  mind 
Against  the  life  of  virtue  in  mankind, 

Assaulting  without  ruth 

The  citadels  of  truth  ; 
While  the  fair  gardens  of  civihty, 

By  ignorance  defaced, 

By  violence  laid  waste. 
Perish  without  reprieve  for  flower  oi-  tre<^ 

VI 

A  crouching  piu-])0se,  —  a  distracted  will, — 
Opposed  to  hopes  that  battened  upon  scorn, 

VOL.    III.  9 


ioO  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  Lo  desires  whose  ever-waxiiig  horn 

jN'ot  all  the  hght  of  eaj'thly  power  could  fill ; 

Opposed  to  dark,  deep  plots  of"  patient  skill, 

And  to  celerities  of  lawless  force  ; 

Which,  spurning  God,  had  flung  away  reniorsi, — - 

AVhat  could  they  gain  but  shadows  of  redress  ? 

—  So  bad  proceeded  propagating  worse  ; 
And  discipline  was  passion's  dire  excess. 
Widens  the  fatal  web,  its  hnes  extend. 
And  deadlier  poisons  in  the  chalice  blend. 
When  will  your  trials  teach  you  to  be  wise  ? 
■ —  O  prostrate  Lands,  consult  your  agonies  ! 

VII. 

No  more,  —  the  guilt  is  banished, 
And,  with  the  guilt,  the  shame  is  fled  ; 
And,  with  the  guilt  ajid  shame,  the   Woe  hatb 

vanished, 
Sliaking  the  dust  and  ashes  from  her  head  ! 

—  No  more,  —  these  lingerings  of  distress 
Sully  the  hmpid  stream  of  thankfulness. 
What  robe  can  Gratitude  employ 

So  seemly  as  the  radiant  vest  of  Joy  ? 
WHiul  steps  so  suitable  as  those  that  move 
In  ])rompt  obedience  to  spontaneous  measures 
Of  glory,  and  fehcity,  and  love, 
SuiTiudering  tlie  whole    heart  to   sacred  plea." 
ures  ? 


ODE.  13] 

VIII. 

O  Britain  !  dearer  far  than  life  is  ilear. 

If  one  there  be 

Of  all  thy  progeny 
Who  can  forget  thy  prowess,  never  more 
Be  that  ungrateful  Son  allowed  to  hear 
Thy  green  leaves  rustle  or  thy  torrents  roar. 
As  springs  the  lion  from  his  den, 

As  from  a  tbrest-brake 

Upstarts  a  glistening  snake. 
The  bold  Ai'ch-despot  reappeared  ;  —  again 
Wide  Europe  heaves,  impatient  to  be  cast, 
With  all  her  armed  Powers, 
On  that  offensive  soil,  like  waves  upon  a  thou- 
sand shores. 
The  trumpet  blew  a  universal  blast ! 
But  thou  art  foi'emost  in  the  field:  —  there  stand: 
Receive  the  triumph  destined  to  thy  hand ! 
All  States  have  glorified  themselves ;  their  claims 
Arc  weighed  by  Providence,  in  balance  even ; 
And  now,  in  preference  to  the  mightiest  names, 
To  thee  the  exterminating;  sword  is  gi\en. 
Dread  mark  Si'  approbation,  justly  gained  ! 
Exalted  office,  worthily  sustained  ! 

IX. 

Preserve,  0  Loi-d  !  within  our  hearts 
Tlie  memory  of  thy  favor, 
That  else  insensibly  departs, 
And  loses  its  sweet  savor  ! 


102  POE-MS    OF    TUE    IMAGINATION. 

Lodge  it  within  us  !  —  as  tlie  power  of  light 

Lives  inexhaustibly  in  precious  gems, 

Fixed  on  the  front  of  Eastern  diadems, 

80  shine  our  thankfulness  for  ever  bright ! 

ANIiat  otfering,  what  transcendent  monument 

Shall  our  sincerity  to  Thee  present  ? 

• — Not  work  of  hands;  but  trophies  that  may  reach 

To  highest  Heaven,  —  the  labor  of  tiie  Soul ; 

That  builds,  as  Thy  unerring  precepts  teach, 

Upon  the  internal  conquests  made  by  each. 

Her  hope  of  lasting  glory  for  the  whole. 

Yet  will  not  heaven  disown  nor  earth  gainsay 

The  outward  service  of  this  day  ; 

Whether  the  worshippers  entreat 

Forgiveness  from  God's  mercy-seat ; 

Or  thanks  and  praises  to  His  throne  ascend. 

That  He  has  brought  our  warfare  to  an  end, 

And  that  we  need  no  second  victory ! 

Ha  !  what  a  ghastly  sight  for  man  to  see  ; 
And  to  the  heavenly  saints  in  peace  who  dwell, 

For  a  brief  moment,  terrible  ; 
But,  to  Thy  sovereign  peneti-ation,  fair. 
Before  whom  all  things  are,  tliat  were. 
All  judgments  that  have  been,  or  e'er  shall  be  ; 
Links  in  the  chain  of  Thy  tranquillity  ! 
Along  the  bosom  of  tliis  favored  Nation, 
Breathe  Thou,  this  day,  a  vital  undulation  ! 
Let  all  who  do  this  land  inherit 
Be  conscious  of  Thy  moving  spirit ! 
Oj  't  is  a  goodly  Ordinance,  —  the  sight. 


ODE.  133 

riiough  sprung  from  bleeding  war,  is  one  of  pure 

delight ; 
Bless  Thou  the  hour,  or  ere  the  hour  ai-rive, 
When  a  whole  people  shall  kneel  down  in  prayer, 
And,  at  one  moment,  iu  one  rapture,  strive 
Witii  lip  and  heart  to  tell  their  gratitude 

For  Thy  protecting  care. 
Their  solemn  joy,  praising  the  Eternal  Lord 

For  tyranny  subdued. 
And  for  the  sway  of  equity  renewed, 
For  Uberty  confirmed,  and  peace  restored  ! 


l'>ut  hark  the  summons!  —  down  tlie  plai^id  late 
Floats  the  soft  cadence  of  the  church-towei'  bells  ; 
Bright  shines  the  Sun,  as  if  his  beams  would  wiika 
The  tender  insects  sleeping  in  their  cells  ; 
Bright  shines  the  Sun, — and  not  a  breeze  u-  shake 
The  drops  that  tip  the  melting  icicles. 

0,  enter  now  His  temple  gate  ! 
Inviting  words,  —  perchance  already  Hung 
(As  the  crowd  press  devoutly  down  the  aisle 
Of  some  old  JVUnster's  venerable  pile) 
From  voices  into  zealous  passion  stung, 
While  the  tubed  engine  feels  the  inspiring  blast, 
\\m\  has  begun  its  clouds  of  sound  to  cast 
Forth  towards  empyreal  Heaven, 
As  if  the  fretted  roof  were  riven, 
fs,  humbler  ceremonies  now  await  ; 
Ihit  in  the  bosom,  with  devout  respect, 


104  POEMS    OF    Tllli    IMAGIN.ATION. 

The  banner  of  our  joy  we  will  erect, 

And  strength  of  love  our  souls  shall  elevate : 

For  to  a  few  collected  in  his  name. 

Their  Heavenly  Father  will  incline  an  ear 

Gracious  to  service  hallowed  by  his  aim  ;  — 

Awake  !  the  majesty  of  God  revere  ! 

Go,  and  with  foreheads  meekly  bowed 
Present  your  prayers,  —  go,  and  rejoice  aloud, — • 

The  Holy  One  will  hear  ! 
And  what,  'mid  silence  deep,  Avith  faith  sincere, 
Ye,  in  your  low  and  undisturbed  estate. 
Shall  simply  feel  and  purely  meditate,  — 
Of  warnings,  from  the  unprecedented  might, 
Which,  in  our  time,  the  impious  have  disclosed  ; 
And  of  more  arduous  duties  thence  imposed 
Upon  the  future  advocates  of  right ; 

Of  mysteries  revealed, 

And  judgments  unrepealed, 

Of  earthly  revolution. 

And  final  retribution,  — 
To  his  omniscience  will  appear 
An  offering  not  unworthy  to  find  place, 
On  this  high  Day  of  Thanks,  before  the  Throne 
of  Grace  ! 


{MEMORIALS     OF     A    TOUR    ON 
THE     CONTINENT. 


1820. 


DEDICATION. 

^SENT    WITH    THESE    POEMS,    IK    MS.,    TO    .) 

Dear  Fellow-travellers!  think  not  that  the  Muse 
To  you  presenting  these  memorial  Lays, 
Can  hope  the  general  eye  thereon  would  giize, 
As  on  a  mirror  that  gives  back  the  hues 
Of  living  Nature;  no, —  though  free  to  choose 
The  greenest  bowers,  the  most  inviting  ways, 
The  fairest  landscapes  and  the  brightest  days,  — 
Her  skill  she  tried  witli  less  ambitious  views. 
For  you  she  wrought :  ye  only  can  supply 
The  life,  the  truth,  the  beauty:  she  confides 
In  that  enjoyment  which  with  you  abides, 
Tnists  to  your  love  and  vivid  memory; 
Thus  far  contented,  that  for  you  her  verse 
Shall  lack  not  power  the  "  meeting  soul  to  pierce"  ! 
Stdal  Moont,  November,  1821. 

W.   WORDSWORTIL 


I. 

FISjn-WOMEN.  —  ON   LANDING   AT   CALAIS. 

T  IS  said,  fantastic  Ocean  dotli  enfold 
The  likeness  of  wliate'ei'  on  land  is  seen  ; 


ItiG  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

But.  if  tlie  Nereid  Sisters  and  tlieir  Queen, 
Al)ove  whose  heads  the  tide  so  long  hath  rolled, 
The  Dames  resemble  whom  we  here  behold, 
How  fearful  were  it  down  through  opening  waves 
To  sink,  and  meet  them  in  their  fretted  caves, 
Withered,  grotesque,  immeasurably  old, 
And  shrill  and  fierce  in  accent !  —  Fear  it  not : 
For  they  Earth's  fairest  daughters  do  excel ; 
Pure  undecaying  beauty  is  their  lot ; 
Their  voices  into  liquid  music  swell. 
Thrilling  each  pearly  cleft  and  spariy  grot. 
The  undisturbed  abodes  where  Sea-nymphs  dwell ! 


II. 


BRUGES. 

BuuGES  I  saw  attired  with  golden  light 

(Streamed  from  the  west)  as  witli  a  robe  of  power: 

The  splendor  fled  ;  and  now  the  sunless  hour, 

That,  slowly  making  way  for  peaceful  night, 

Best  suits  with  fallen  gi-andeur,  to  my  sight 

Offers  tlie  beauty,  the  magnificence. 

And  sober  graces,  left  her  for  defence 

Against  the  injuries  of  time,  the  spite 

Of  fortune,  and  the  desolating  storms 

Of  future  war.     Advance  not,  —  spare  to  liide, 

0  gentle  Power  of  darkness  !  these  mild  hues; 

()bsc'Ui"(-  not  yet  these  silent  avenues 

Of  stateliest  architecture,  where  the  Forms 

or  nu;i-like  females,  with  soft  motion,  glide  ! 


iNCIDENT   AT    BRUGES.  137 

m. 

BRUGES. 

The  Spirit  of  Antiquity  —  enshrined 

In  sumptuous  buildings,  vocal  in  sweet  song, 

In  picture,  speaking  with  heroic  tongue, 

And  with  devout  solemnities  entwined  — 

Mounts  to  the  seat  of  grace  within  the  mind : 

Hence  Forms  that  glide  with  swan-like  ease  along; 

Hence  motions,  even  amid  the  vulgar  throng, 

To  an  harmonious  decency  confined  : 

As  if  the  streets  were  consecrated  ground. 

The  city  one  vast  temjile,  dedicate 

To  mutual  respect  in  thought  and  deed ; 

To  leisure,  to  forbearances  sedate  ; 

To  social  cares  from  jarring  passions  freed  ; 

A  deeper  pe^ce  than  that  in  deserts  found ' 


ly. 

INCIDENT    AT    BRUGES. 

In  Bruges  town  is  many  a  street 
Whence  busy  life  hath  fled  ; 

"Where,  without  hurry,  noiseless  feet 
The  grass-grown  pavement  tread. 


i38  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

There  heard  we,  halting  in  the  shade 
Fhing  from  a  Convent-tower, 

A  harp  that  tuneful  prehide  made 
To  a  voice  of  thriUing  jjower. 

The  measure,  simple  truth  to  tell, 

Was  fit  for  some  gay  throng ; 
Though  from  the  same  grim  turret  fell 

The  shadow  and  the  song, 
Wlien  silent  were  both  voice  and  chords. 

The  strain  seemed  doubly  dear, 
Yet  sad  as  sweet,  —  for  English  words 

Had  fallen  upon  the  ear. 

It  was  a  breezy  hour  of  eve ; 

And  pinnacle  and  spire 
Quivered,  and  seemed  almost  to  heave. 

Clothed  with  innocuous  fire  ; 
But  where  we  stood,  the  setting  sun 

Showed  little  of  his  state  ; 
And,  if  the  glory  reached  the  Nun, 

'T  was  through  an  iron  grate. 

Not  always  is  the  heart  unwise. 

Nor  pity  idly  born. 
If  even  a  passing  Stranger  sighs 

For  them  who  do  not  mourn. 
Sad  is  thy  doom,  self-solaced  dove. 

Captive,  whoe'er  thou  be  ! 
O,  what  is  beauty,  what  is  love 

And  opening  life  to  thee  ? 


SONNETS.  139 

Such  feeling  pressed  upon  my  soul, 

A  feeling  sanctified 
By  one  soft  trickling  tear  tliat  stole 

From  the  Maiden  at  my  side ; 
Less  tribute  could  she  pay  than  this, 

Borne  gaily  o'er  the  sea, 
Fresh  from  the  beauty  and  the  bliss 

Of  EngUsh  Uberty  ? 


AFTEK  VISITINO  THE  FIELD   OF  WATERLOO. 

A  WINGED  Goddess,  clothed  in  vesture  wrought 
Of  rainbow  colors,  —  one  whose  port  was  bold. 
Whose  overburdened  hand  could  scarcely  hold 
The    ghttering    crowns    and    garlands    which    it 

brought,  — 
Hovered  in  air  above  the  far-famed  spot. 
She  vanished ;  leaving  prospect  blank  and  cold 
Of  wind-swept  corn  that  wide  around  us  rolled 
In  di'eaiy  bUlows,  wood,  and  meagre  cot, 
And  monuments  that  soon  must  disappear : 
Yet  a  dread  local  recompense  we  found ; 
While  glory  seemed  betrayed,  while  patriot  zeaJ 
Sank  in  our  hearts,  we  felt  as  men  shordd  feel 
With  such  vast  hoards  of  hidden  carnage  near, 
A.nd  horror  breathing  from  the  silent  ground ! 


140  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 


VI. 

BETWEEN  NAMUR  AND  LIEGE. 

What  lovelier  home  could  gentle  Fancy  choose  ? 
Is  tills  the  stream  whose  cities,  heights,  and  plains, 
War's  favorite  playground,  are  Avith  crimson  stains 
Familiar,  as  the  Morn  with  pearly  dews  ? 
The  Morn,  that  now,  along  the  silver  Meuse, 
Spreading  her  peaceful  ensigns,  calls  the  swains 
To  tend  their  silent  boats  and  ringing  wains, 
Or  strip  the  bough  whose  mellow  fruit  bestrews 
The  ripening  corn  beneath  it.     As  mine  eyes 
Turn  from  the  fortified  and  threatening  hill. 
How  sweet  the  prospect  of  yon  watery  glade, 
With  its  gray  rocks  clustering  in  pensive  shade, 
Tliat,  shaped  like  old  monastic  turrets,  rise 
From  the  smooth  meadow-ground,  serene  and  still ! 


VII. 

AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. 

Was  it  to  disenchant,  and  to  undo, 
That  we  approached  the  Seat  of  Charlemaine  ? 
To  sweep  from  many  an  old  romantic  strain 
That  faith  which  no  devotion  may  renew  ! 
Why  does  this  puny  Cluirch  present  to  view 
tier  feeble  columns?  and  that  scanty  chair! 
This  sword  that  one  of  our  weak  times  might  wear! 


SONNETS.  141 

OI)jects  of  false  pretence,  or  meanly  true  ! 

If  from  a  traveller's  fortune  I  might  claim 

A  paljiable  memorial  of  that  day, 

Then  would  I  seek  the  Pyrenean  Breach 

That  Roland  clove  with  huge  two-handed  sway, 

And  to  the  enormous  labor  left  his  name, 

Where  unremitting  frosts  the  rocky  crescent  bleach. 


VIII. 

IN  THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  COLOGNE, 

0  FOR  the  help  of  Angels  to  complete 
This  Temple,  —  Angels  governed  by  a  plan 
Thus  far  pursued  (how  gloriously !)  by  Man, 
Studious  that  He  might  not  disdain  the  seat 
Who  dwells  in  heaven  !     But  that  aspiring  heat 
Hath  failed ;  and  now,  ye   Powers  !  whose  gor- 
geous wings 
And  splendid  aspect  yon  emblazonings 
But  faintly  picture,  't  were  an  office  meet 
For  you,  on  these  unfinished  shafts  to  try 
The  midnight  virtues  of  your  harmony :  — 
This  vast  design  might  tempt  you  to  repeat 
Strains  that  call  forth  upon  empyreal  ground 
Immortal  Fabrics,  rising  to  the  sound 
Of  penetrating  harps  and  voices  sweet ! 


142  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

IX. 

IN  A   CARRIAGE,   UPON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE   RHINB. 

Amid  this  dance  of  objects  sadness  steals 

O'er  the  defrauded  heart,  —  while  sweeping  by, 

As  in  a  fit  of  Thespian  jollity, 

Beneath  her  vine-leaf  crown  the  green  Earth  reels: 

Backwax'd,  in  rapid  evanescence,  wheels 

The  venerable  pageantry  of  Time, 

Each  beetling  rampart,  and  each  tower  sublime, 

And  Avhat  the  Dell  unwillingly  reveals 

Of  lurking  cloistral  arch,  through  trees  espied 

Near  the  bright  River's  edge.     Yet  why  repine  ? 

To  muse,  to  creep,  to  halt  at  will,  to  gaze,  — 

Such  sweet  wayfaring,  —  of  life's  spring  the  pride, 

Her  summer's  faithful  joy, — that  still  is  mine, 

And  in  fit  measure  cheers  autumnal  days. 


z. 


HYMN, 

FOR  THE   TSOATMEN,    AS   THEY   APPROACn  THE   RAPIDS 
UNUEK  THE   CASTLE  OF   HEUIKI.UERO. 

Jksi;  !  bless  our  slender  Boat, 
By  the  current  swept  along; 


HYMN.  H3 

Loud  its  threateniiigs,  —  let  them  not 

Drown  the  music  of"  a  song 
Breathed  thy  mercy  to  implore, 
Where  these  troubled  waters  roar ! 

Saviour,  for  our  warning,  seen 
Bleeding  on  that  precious  Rood  ! 

If,  while  through  the  meadows  green 
Gently  wound  the  peaceful  flood, 

We  forgot  Thee,  do  not  Thou 

Disregard  thy  Suppliants  now  ! 

Hither,  like  yon  ancient  Tower 

Watching  o'er  the  River's  bed, 
Fling  the  shadow  of  thy  power, 

Else  we  sleep  among  the  dead  ; 
Thou  who  trod'st  the  billowy  sea, 
Shield  us  in  our  jeopardy  ! 

Guide  our  Bark  among  the  waves ; 

Through  the  rocks  our  passage  smooth , 
Where  the  whii-lpool  frets  and  raves, 

Let  thy  love  its  anger  soothe : 
All  our  hope  is  placed  in  Thee ; 
Miseren  Domine  !  * 

*  See  Note. 


114  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 


XI. 

THE  SOURCE  OF  THE  DANUBE. 

Not,  like  his  great  Compeers,  indignantly 

Doth  Danube  spring  to  life*!     The  wandering 

Stream 
(Who  loves  the  Cross,  yet  to  the  Crescent's  gleara 
Unfolds  a  willing  breast)  with  infant  glee 
vSlips  from  his  prison  walls  :  and  Fancy,  free 
To  follow  in  his  track  of  silver  light, 
^founts  on  rapt  wing,  and  with  a  moment's  flight 
Hath  reached  the  encincture  of  that  gloomy  sea 
Whose  waves  the  Orphean  lyre  forbade  to  meet 
111  conflict,  whose  rough  winds  forgot  their  jars 
To  waft  the  heroic  progeny  of  Greece, 
When  the  first  Ship  sailed  for  the  Golden  Fleece, — 
Argo,  —  exalted  for  that  daring  feat 
To  fix  in  heaven  her  shape  distmct  with  stars. 


XII. 

ON   APPROACHING   THE   STAUB-BACH,    LAUTERBKUNNES. 

Uttered  by  whom,  or  how  inspired,  designed 
For  what  strange  service,  does  this  concert  reach 
Our  ears,  and  near  the  dwellings  of  mankind,  — 
Mid  fields  fainiharized  to  human  speech?  — 

*  See  Note. 


SONNETS.  145 

No  Mermaids  warble  —  to  allay  the  wind 

Drivinof  some  vessel  toward  a  dangerous  beach,  — 

More  thrilling  melodies  ;  Witch  answering  Witch, 

To  chant  a  lo-\-e-spell,  never  intertwined 

Notes  shrill  and  wild  with  art  more  musical : 

Alas  !  that  from  the  lips  of  abject  Want 

Or  Idleness  in  tatters  mendicant 

The^  strain  should  flow,  free  Fancy  to  inthrall, 

And  with  regret  and  useless  pity  haunt 

This  bold,  this  bright,  this  sky-born  Waterfall  !  * 


XIII. 
THE  FALL,  OF  THE  AAR.  HANDEC. 

From  the  fierce  aspect  of  this  River,  throwing 
His  giant  body  o'er  the  steep  rock's  brink, 
Back  in  astonishment  and  fear  we  shrink : 
But,  gradually  a  calmer  look  bestowing. 
Flowers  we  espy  beside  the  torrent  growing ; 
Flowers  that  peep  forth  from  many  a  cleft  and 

chink, 
And,  from  the  whirlwind  of  his  anger,  drink 
Hues  ever  fresh,  in  rocky  fortress  blowing : 
They  suck  —  from    breath    that,    threatening   to 

destroy. 
Is  more  benignant  than  the  dewy  eve  — 


*  See  Note. 

VOL.    III.  10 


146  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATIOX. 

Beauty,  and  life,  and  motions  as  of  joy: 
Nor  doubt  but  Hk  to  whom  yon  pine-trees  nod 
Their  heads  in  sign  of  woiship,  Nature's  God. 
These  humbler  adorations  will  receive. 


XIV. 

MEMORIAL, 

MKAB  THE  OUTLET   OF   THE    LAKE  OF  THTJK. 

"DEM 

ANDENEEN 

MEINES  FREUNDES 

ALOYS  REDING 

MDCCCXVIIV 

Aloys  Reding,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  Captain-General 
of  tlie  Swiss  forces,  which,  with  a  courage  and  perseverance 
worthy  of  the  cause,  opposed  the  flagitious  and  too  successful 
attempt  of  Buonaparte  to  subjugate  their  country. 

Around  a  wild  and  woody  hill, 
A  gravelled  pathway  ti-eading, 
We  reached  a  voti\e  Stone  that  bears 
The  name  of  Aloys  Reding. 

Well  judged  the  Friend  who  placed  it  there 
For  silence  and  protection  ; 
And  h;ii)]y  with  a  finer  care 
Of  dii  t  i  til  I  attection. 


DOOJ'lED    AS    "WE    ARE,  147 

The  Sun  regards  it  from  the  West : 
And,  while  in  summer  glory 
He  sets,  his  sinking  yields  a  type 
Of  that  pathetic  story  : 

And  oft  he  tempts  the  patriot  Swiss 
Amid  the  grove  to  linger ; 
Till  all  is  dim,  save  this  bright  Stone 
Touched  by  his  golden  linger. 


XV. 

COMPOSED    IN    ONE    OF    THE    CATHOLIC 
CANTONS. 

Doomed  as  we  are  our  native  dust 
To  wet  with  many  a  bitter  shower, 
It  ill  befits  us  to  disdain 
The  altar,  to  deride  the  fane, 
Where  simple  Sufferers  bend,  in  trust 
To  win  a  happier  hour. 

I  love,  where  spreads  the  village  lawn, 
Upon  some  knee-worn  cell  to  gaze  : 
Hail  to  the  firm,  unmoving  cross, 
Aloft,  where  pines  their  branches  toss  ! 
And  to  the  chapel  far  withdrawn, 
That  lurks  by  lonely  ways  1 


H8  POEMS    OF    TUE    IMAGINATION. 

Where'er  we  roam,  along  the  brink 
Of  Rhine,  or  by  the  sweeping  Po, 
Through  Alpine  vale,  or  champaigne  wide, 
Whate'er  we  look  on,  at  our  side 
Be  Charity  !  —  to  bid  us  think. 
And  feel,  if  we  would  know. 


XVI. 

AFTER-THOUGHT. 

O  Life  !  without  thy  checkered  scene 
Of  right  and  wrong,  of  weal  and  woe. 
Success  and  failure,  could  a  ground 
For  magnanimity  be  found  ; 
For  faith,  'mid  ruined  hopes,  sei-ene .'' 
Or  whence  could  virtue  flow  ? 

Pain  entered  through  a  ghastly  breach, 
Nor  while  sin  lasts  must  effort  cease ; 
Heaven  upon  earth  's  an  empty  boast ; 
But,  for  the  bowers  of  Eden  lost, 
Mercy  has  placed  within  our  reach 
A  portion  of  God's  peace. 


ENGELBERG,   THE    HILL  OF   ANGELS.       I'i9 

XVII. 

SCENE    ON   THE   LAKE   OF  BRIENTZ. 

"  What  know  we  of  the  Blest  above 
But  that  they  sing  and  that  they  love  ?  " 
Yet,  if  they  ever  did  inspire 
A  mortal  hymn,  or  shaped  the  choir. 
Now,  where  those  harvest  Damsels  float 
Homeward  in  their  rugged  Boat, 
(While  all  the  ruffling  winds  are  fled, 
Each  slumbering  on  some  mountain's  head,) 
Now,  surely,  hath  that  gracious  aid 
Been  felt,  that  influence  is  displayed. 
Pupils  of  Heaven,  in  order  stand 
The  rustic  Maidens,  every  hand 
Upon  a  Sister's  shoulder  laid,  — 
To  chant,  as  glides  the  boat  along, 
A  simple,  but  a  touching,  song  ; 
To  chant,  as  Angels  do  above, 
The  melodies  of  Peace  in  love  ! 


XVIII. 

ENGELBERG,   THE   HILL  OF  ANGELS* 

For  gentlest  uses,  ofttimes  Nature  takes 
The  Avork  of  Fancy  from  her  willing  hands; 

*  See  Kote. 


150  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  such  a  beautiful  creation  makes 
As  renders  needless  spells  and  magic  wands, 
And  for  the  boldest  tale  belief  commands. 
When  first  mine  eyes  beheld  that  famous  Hill, 
The  sacred  Engelberg,  celestial  Bands, 
With  intermingling  motions  soft  and  still, 
Hung  round  its  top,  on  wings  that  changed  theii 
hues  at  will. 

Clouds  do  not  name  those  Visitants  ;  they  were 
The  very  Angels  whose  authentic  lays, 
Siuig  from  that  heavenly  ground  in  middle  air, 
Made  known  the  spot  where  piety  should  raise 
A  holy  Structure  to  the  Almighty's  praise. 
Resplendent  Apparition  !  if  in  vain 
My  ears  did  listen,  't  was  enough  to  gaze  ; 
And  watch  the  slow  departure  of  the  tJ'ain, 
Whose  skirts  the  glowing  Mountain  thirsted    to 
detain. 


XIX. 
OUR   LADY   OF   THE    SNOW. 

Meek  Virgin  Mother,  more  benign 
Than  fairest  Star,  upon  the  height 
Of  thy  own  mountain  *  set  to  keep 


*  Mount  Righi. 


OUR    hXVr    OF    THE    SNOW.  1-Oi 

Lone  vigils  through  the  hour  of  sleep, 
What  eye  can  look  upon  thy  shi-ine 
Untroubled  at  the  sight? 

These  crowded  offerings,  as  they  hang 

In  sight  of  misery  relieved, 

Even  these,  without  intent  of  theirs, 

Report  of  comfortless  despairs, 

Of  many  a  deep  and  cureless  pang, 

And  confidence  deceived. 

To  thee,  in  this  aerial  cleft, 
As  to  a  common  centre,  tend 
All  sufferers  that  no  more  rely 
On  mortal  succor,  —  all  who  sigh 
And  pine,  of  human  hope  bereft. 
Nor  wish  for  earthly  friend. 

And  hence,  O  Virgin  Mother  mild ! 
Though  plenteous  flowers  around  thee  blow, 
Not  only  from  the  dreary  strife 
Of  Winter,  but  the  storms  of  life. 
Thee  have  thy  Votaries  aptly  styled, 
Our  Lady  of  the  Snow. 

:.ven  for  the  Man  who  stops  not  here. 
But  down  the  irriguous  valley  hies. 
Thy  very  name,  O  Lady !  flings 
O'er  blooming  fields  and  gushing  springs 
A  tender  sense  of  shadowy  fear, 
And  chastening  sytnpatliies  ! 


152  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 

Nor  falls  that  intermingling  shade 
To  summer-gladsomeness  unkind : 
It  chastens  only  to  requite 
With  gleams  of  fresher,  purer  light ; 
While,  o'er  the  flower-enamelled  glade, 
More  sweetly  breathes  the  wind. 

But  on  !  —  a  tempting  downward  way, 
A  verdant  path,  before  us  lies  ; 
Clear  shines  the  glorious  sun  above  ; 
Then  give  free  course  to  joy  and  love, 
Deeming  the  evil  of  the  day 
Sufficient  for  the  wise. 


XX. 

EFFUSION, 


U»   PRESENCE  OF  THE   PAINTED   TOWER   OF  TELL,   AT 
ALTOKF. 

This  Tower  stands  upon  the  spot  where  grew  the  Linden- 
Tree  against  which  his  son  is  said  to  have  been  placed,  wlien 
the  father's  arcliery  was  put  to  proof  under  circumstances 
80  famous  in  Swiss  story. 

What  though  the  Italian  pencil  wrought  not  here, 

Nor  such  fine  skill  as  did  the  meed  bestow 

On  Marathonian  valor,  yet  the  tear 

Springs  forth  in  presence  of  this  gaudy  show, 

\\'"liile  narrow  cares  their  limits  overflow. 


EFFUSION.  15'"! 

riirice  happy,  burghers,  peasants,  warriors  old, 
Infants  in  arms,' and  ye,  that,  as  ye  go 
Plomeward  or  school-ward,  ape  what  ye  behold  : 
Heroes  before  your  time,  in  frolic  fancy  bold  ! 

And  when  that  calm  Spectatress  from  on  high 
Looks  down,  —  the  bright  and  solitary  Moon, 
Who  never  gazes  but  to  beautify  ; 
And  snow-fed  torrents,  which  the  blaze  of  noon 
Roused  into  fury,  murmur  a  soft  tune 
That  fosters  peace,  and  gentleness  recalls  ; 
Then  might  the  passing  Monk  receive  a  boon 
Of  saintly  pleasure  from  these  pictured  walls, 
While,  on  the  warlike  groups,  the  mellowing  lustre 
falls. 

Hjw  blest  the  souls  who  when  their  trials  come 
Yield  not  to  terror  or  despondency. 
But  face  like  that  sweet  Boy  their  mortal  doom, 
Whose  head  the  ruddy  apple  tops,  while  he 
Expectant  stands  beneath  the  linden-tree : 
He  quakes  not  like  the  timid  forest  game. 
But  smiles,  —  the  hesitating  shaft  to  free  ; 
Assured  that  Heaven  its  justice  will  proclaim, 
And  to  his  father  give  its  own  unerring  aim. 


154  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXI. 


THE  TOVITN  OF   SCHWYTZ. 


Br  antique  Fancy  trimmed,  —  though  lowly,  bred 
To  dignity,  —  in  thee,  O  Schwttz  !  are  seen 
The  genuine  features  of  the  golden  mean  ; 
Equality  by  Prudence  governed, 
Or  jealous  Nature  ruling  in  her  stead  ; 
And  therefore  art  thou  blest  with  peace,  serene 
As  that  of  the  sweet  fields  and  meadows  green 
In  unambitious  compass  round  thee  spread. 
Majesty  Berne,  high  on  her  guardian  steep, 
Holding  a  centra>  station  of  command. 
Might  well  be  styled  this  noble  body's  Head  ; 
Thou,   lodged    'mid   mountainous   intrenchmenta 

deep, 
Its  Heart  ;  and  ever  may  the  heroic  Land 
Thy  name,  0  Schwttz  !  in  happy  freedom  keep.* 


XXII. 

}V  HEARING  THE   "  RANZ   DES    VACHES"    ON    THE    TOP    OF 
THE  PASS   OF   ST.    GOTHARD. 

I  LISTEN,  —  but  no  faculty  of  mine 
Avails  those  modulations  to  detect, 

*  Nearly  five  hundred  years  (says  Ebel,  speaking  of  the 
French  Invasion)  had  elapsed,  when,  for  the  first  time,  foreign 
iinldiers  were  seen  upon  the  frontiers  of  this  small  Canton,  to 
•cipose  upon  it  the  laws  of  their  governors. 


FORT    FUENTES.  155 

Which,  heard  in  foreign  lands,  the  Swiss  affect 
With  tenderest  passion  ;  leaving  him  to  pine 
(So  fame  reports)  and  die,  —  his  sweet-breath'd 

kine 
Remembering,  and  green  Alpine  pastures  decked 
With  vernal  flowers.     Yet  may  we  not  reject 
The  tale  as  fabulous.  —  Here  while  I  rechne, 
Mindful  how  others  by  this  simple  Strain 
Are  moved,  for  me,  —  upon  this  Mountain  named 
Of  God  himself  from  dread  pre-eminence,  — 
Aspiring  thoughts,  by  memory  reclaimed, 
Yield  to  the  Music's  touching  influence  ; 
And  joys  of  distant  home  my  heart  enchain. 


XXIII. 
FORT   FUENTES. 


The  Ruins  of  Fort  Fuentes  form  the  crest  of  a  rocky  emt 
aeiice  that  rises  from  the  plain  at  the  head  of  the  Lake  of  Como, 
lommanding  views  up  the  Valteline,  and  toward  tlie  town  of 
Chiavenna.  Tlie  prospect  in  the  latter  direction  is  character- 
ized by  melancholy  sublimity.  We  rejoiced  at  being  favored 
with  a  distinct  view  of  those  Alpine  heights ;  not,  as  we  had 
expected  from  the  breaking  up  of  the  storm,  steeped  in  celestial 
glory,  yet  in  communion  with  clouds  floating  or  stationary, — 
scattei'ings  from  heaven.  The  Ruin  is  interesting  both  in  mass 
and  in  detail.  An  Inscription,  upon  elaborately  sculptured  mar- 
ble Ij'ing  on  the  ground,  records  that  the  Fort  had  been  erected 
by  Count  Fuentes  in  the  year  1600,  during  the  reign  of  Philip 
the  Third;  and  the  chapel,  about  twenty  yeai-s  after,  by  one 
of  his  descendants.     Marble  pDlars  of  gateways  are  yet  stand- 


156  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

ing,  and  a  considerable  part  of  the  Chapel  walls :  a  smooth  gi-een 
turf  has  taken  place  of  the  pavement,  and  we  could  see  no 
trace  of  altar  or  unage ;  but  everywhere  something  to  remind 
one  of  former  splendor,  and  of  devastation  and  tumult.  In  our 
ascent  we  had  passed  abundance  of  wild  ^'ines  intermingled 
with  bushes:  near  the  ruhis  were  some  ill  tended,  but  growing 
willingly;  and  rock,  turf,  and  fragments  of  the  pile,  are  alike 
covered  or  adorned  with  a  variety  of  flowers,  among  which  the 
rose-colored  pink  was  growing  in  great  beauty.  While  de- 
scending, we  discovered  on  the  ground,  apart  from  the  path, 
and  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  rained  Chapel,  a  statue 
of  a  Child  in  pure  white  marble,  uninjured  by  the  explo- 
sion that  had  driven  it  so  far  down  the  hill.  "  How  little,"  we 
exclaimed,  "are  these  things  valued  here!  Could  we' but 
transport  this  pretty  Image  to  our  own  garden ! "  —  Yet  it 
seemed  it  would  have  been  a  pity  any  one  should  remove  it 
from  its  couch  in  the  wilderness,  which  may  be  its  own  for 
hundreds  of  years.  —  Extract  from  Journal. 

Dread  hour  !  when,  upheaved  by  war's  sulphur- 
ous blast, 

This  sweet-visaged  Cherub  of  Parian  stone 
So  far  from  the  holy  inclosure  was  cast, 

To  couch  in  this  thicket  of  brambles  alone,  — 

To  rest  where  the  lizard  may  bask  in  the  palm 

Of  his  half-open  hand,  pure  from  blemish  or  speck, 
And  the  green,  gilded  snake,  without  troubling  the 
calm 
Of  the  beautiful  countenance,  twine  round  his 
neck; 

WTiere  haply,  (kind  service  to  Piety  due  !) 

When  Winter  the  grove  of  its  mantle  bereaves, 


TUE    CHURCH    OF    SAN    SALVADOR.         157 

Some  bird  (like  our  own  honored  redbreast)  may 
strew 
The  desolate   Slumberer  with  moss  and  witli 
leaves. 

FuENTES  once  harbored  the  good  and  the  brave, 
Nor  to  her  was  the  dance  of  soft  pleasure  un- 
known ; 
Her  banners  for  festal  enjoyment  did  wave 

While  the  thrill  of  her  fifes  through  the  moun- 
tains was  blown : 

Now  gads  the  wild  vine  o'er  the  pathless  ascent ;  — 
O  silence  of  Nature,  how  deep  is  thy  sway, 

When  the  whirlwind  of  human  destruction  is  spent, 
Our  tumults  appeased,  and  our  strifes  passed 
away! 


XXIV. 
THE   CHURCH   OF   SAN   SALVADOR. 

SEEN   FROM  THE  LAKE   OF   LUGANO. 

This  Church  was  almost  destroyed  by  lightning  a  few  years 
ago,  but  the  altar  and  the  image  of  the  Patron  Saint  were  un- 
touched. The  Mount,  upon  the  summit  of  which  the  Church 
is  built,  stands  amid  the  intricacies  of  the  Lake  of  Lugano; 
and  is,  from  a  hundred  points  of  view,  its  principal  ornament, 
rising  to  the  height  of  2,000  feet,  and,  on  one  side,  nearly  per- 
XKsndicular.  The  ascent  is  toilsome ;  but  the  traveller  who  per- 
(onu'4  It  will  be  amply  rewarded.     Splendid  fertility,   i-ich 


158  POEJIS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

woods  and  dazzling  waters,  seclusion  and  confinement  of  view 
contrasted  with  sea-like  extent  of  plain  fading  into  the  sky, 
mid  this  again,  in  an  opposite  quarter,  with  an  horizon  of  the 
.oftiest  and  boldest  Alps,  unite  in  composing  a  pi-ospect  more 
diversified  by  magnificence,  beauty,  and  sublimity,  than  per- 
haps any  other  point  in  Europe,  of  so  inconsiderable  an  eleva- 
fcion,  commands. 

Thou  sacred  Pile  !  whose  turrets  rise 
From  yon  steep  mountain's  loftiest  stage, 
Guarded  by  lone  San  Salvador ; 
Sink  (if  thou  must)  as  heretofore, 
To  sulphurous  bolts  a  sacrifice. 
But  ne'er  to  human  rage ! 

On  Horeb's  top,  on  Sinai,  deigned 
To  rest  the  Universal  Lord : 
Why  leap  the  fountains  from  their  cells 
Where  everlasting  Bounty  dwells  ?  — 
That,  while  the  Creature  is  sustained. 
His  God  may  be  adored. 

Cliffs,  fountains,  rivers,  seasons,  times,  — 

Let  all  remind  the  soul  of  heaven  ; 

Our  slack  devotion  needs  them  all ; 

And  Faith  —  so  oft  of  sense  the  thrall,  ' 

While  she,  by  aid  of  Nature,  climbs  — 

May  hope  to  be  forgiven. 

Glory,  and  patriotic  Love, 
And  all  the  Pomps  of  this  frail  "  spot 
'Wliich  men  call  Earth, "  have  yearned  to  seek, 


THE    ITALIAN    ITINERANT.  159 

Associate  with  the  simply  meek, 
Religion  in  the  sainted  grove, 
And  in  the  hallowed  grot. 

Thither,  in  time  of  adverse  shocks, 
Of  fainting  hopes  and  backward  wills,. 
Did  mighty  Tell  repair  of  old,  — 
A  Hero  cast  in  Nature's  mould, 
Deliverer  of  the  steadfast  rocks 
And  of  the  ancient  hills  ! 

He^  too,  of  battle-martyrs  chief ! 
Who,  to  recall  his  daunted  peers, 
For  victory  shaped  an  open  space, 
By  gathering  with  a  wide  embrace, 
Into  his  single  breast,  a  sheaf 
Of  fatal  Austrian  spears.* 


XXV. 


THE  ITALIAN  ITINERANT,  AND   THE  SWISS 
GOATHERD. 

PART    I. 


Now  that  the  farewell  tear  is  dried, 
Heaven  prosper  thee,  be  Hope  thy  guide ! 

*  Arnold  Winkelried,  at  the  battle  of  Scmpnch,  broke  an 
Austrian  phalanx  in  this  manner.     The  event  is  one  of  the 


1 00  POEilS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION 

Hope  be  thj  guide,  adventurous  Boj ! 
The  wages  of  thy  travel,  joy  I 
Whether  for  London  bound,  to  trill 
Thy  mountain  notes  with  simple  skill ; 
Or  on  thy  head  to  poise  a  show 
Of  Images  in  seemly  row,  — 
The  graceful  form  of  milk-white  Steed, 
Or  Bii'd  that  soared  with  Ganymede  ; 
Or  through  our  hamlets  thou  wilt  bear 
The  sightless  Milton,  with  his  hair 
Around  his  placid  temples  cui'led  ; 
And  Shakespeare  at  his  side,  —  a  freight, 
If  clay  could  think  and  mind  were  weight, 
For  him  who  bore  the  world ! 
Hope  be  thy  guide,  adventurous  Boy  ! 
The  wages  of  thy  travel,  joy  ! 

u. 

But  thou,  perhaps,  (alert  as  free, 

Though  serving  sage  philosophy,) 

Wilt  ramble  over  hill  and  dale, 

A  Vender  of  the  well-wrought  Scale, 

Whose  sentient  tube  instructs  to  time 

A  purpose  to  a  tickle  clime  : 

Whether  thou  choose  this  useful  part. 

Or  minister  to  finer  art, 

Though  robbed  of  many  a  cherished  dream, 

And  ci'ossed  by  many  a  shattered  scheme, 

most  famous  in  the  annals  of  Swiss  heroism;  and  pictures  and 
ariuts  of  it  are  frequent  thi-ougliout  the  country. 


THE   ITALIAN   ITINERANT.  IGl 

What  stirring  wonders  wilt  thou  see 

In  the  proud  Isle  of  Liberty  ! 

Yet  will  the  Wanderer  sometimes  pine 

With  thoughts  which  no  delights  can  chase, 

Recall  a  Sister's  last  embrace, 

His  Mother's  neck  entwine  ; 

Nor  shall  forget  the  Maiden  coy 

That  would  have  loved  the  bright-haired  Boy  ! 

in. 

My  Song,  encouraged  by  the  grace 

That  beams  from  his  ingenuous  face, 

For  this  Adventurer  scruples  not 

To  prophesy  a  golden  lot ; 

Due  recompense,  and  safe  return 

To  CoMO's  steeps,  —  his  happy  bourne ! 

Where  he,  aloft  in  garden  glade, 

Shall  tend,  with  his  own  dark-eyed  Maid, 

The  towering  maize,  and  prop  the  twig 

That  ill  supports  the  luscious  fig ; 

Or  feed  his  eyes  in  paths  sun-proof 

With  purple  of  the  trellis-roof, 

That  through  the  jealous  leaves  escapes 

From  Cadenabbia's  pendent  grapes. 

—  O  might  he  tempt  that  Goatherd-child 

To  share  his  wanderings  !  him  whose  look 

p]ven  yet  my  heart  can  scarcely  brook, 

So  touchingly  he  smiled,  — 

As  with  a  rapture  caught  fx'om  heaven,  — 

For  unasked  alms  in  pity  given. 

VOL     III.  11 


1G2      POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


PART  II. 
I. 

"With  nodding  plumes,  and  lightly  drest, 
Like  foresters  in  leaf-green  vest, 
The  Helvetian  Mountaineers,  on  ground 
For  Tell's  dread  archery  renowned, 
Before  the  target  stood,  —  to  claim 
The  guerdon  of  the  steadiest  aim. 
Loud  was  the  rifle-gun's  report,  — 
A  startling  thunder  quick  and  short ! 
But,  flying  through  the  heights  around. 
Echo  prolonged  a  telltale  sound 
Of  hearts  and  hands  alike  "  prepared 
The  treasures  they  enjoy  to  guard  " ! 
And,  if  there  be  a  favored  hour 
When  Heroes  are  allowed  to  quit 
The  tomb,  and  on  the  clouds  to  sit 
With  tutelary  power. 
On  their  descendants  shedding  grace, 
This  was  the  hour,  and  that  the  placie. 

u. 

But  Truth  inspired  the  Bards  of  old 
When  of  an  iron  age  they  told. 
Which  to  unequal  laws  gave  birth, 
And  drove  Astraea  from  the  earth. 
■ —  A  gentle  Boy,  (perchance  with  blood 
As  noble  as  the  best  endued, 


THE    LAST    SUPPER.  163 

But  seemingly  a  thing  despised  ; 

Even  by  the  sun  and  air  unprized  ; 

For  not  a  tinge  or  flowery  streak 

Appeared  upon  his  tender  cheek,) 

Heart-deaf  to  those  rebounding  notes, 

Apart,  beside  his  silent  goats, 

Sat  watching  in  a  forest  shed, 

Pale,  ragged,  with  bare  feet  and  head ; 

Mute  as  the  snow  upon  the  hill. 

And,  as  the  saint  he  prays  to,  still. 

Ah,  what  avails  heroic  deed  ? 

What  liberty  ?  if  no  defence 

Be  won  for  feeble  Innocence. 

Father  of  all !  though  wilful  Manhood  read 

His  punishment  in  soul-distress. 

Grant  to  the  morn  of  life  its  natural  blessedness ! 


XXVI. 

THE  LAST  SUPPER,  BY  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI,  IN  THE  RE- 
FECTORY OF  THE  CONVENT  OF  MARIA  DELLA  GRAZIA, 
MILAN.* 

Though  searching  damps  and  many  an  envious  flaw 
Have  marred  this  work  ;  the  calm,  ethereal  grace. 
The  love  deep-seated  in  the  Saviour's  face, 
The  mercy,  goodness,  have  not  failed  to  awe 

*  See  Note. 


1  61:  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

The  Elements ;  as  they  do  melt  and  thaw 

The  heart  of  the  beholder,  —  and  erase 

(At  least  for  one  rapt  moment)  every  trace 

Of  disobedience  to  the  primal  law. 

The  annunciation  of  the  dreadful  truth 

^lade  to  the  Twelve,  survives :  lip,  forehead,  chceiJ, 

And  hand  i-eposing  on  the  board  in  ruth 

Of  what  it  uttei's,  while  the  unguilty  seeii 

Unquestionable  meanings,  still  bespeak 

A  hibor  worthy  of  eternal  youth  ! 


XXVII. 

THE  ECLIPSE  OF  THE  SUN,  1820- 

High  on  her  spei^ulative  tower 
Stood  Science  waiting  for  the  hour 
When  Sol  was  destined  to  endure 
That  darkening  of  his  radiant  face 
Which  Superstition  strove  to  chase, 
Erewhile,  with  rites  impure. 

Afloat  beneath  Italian  skies, 
Through  i-egions  fair  as  Paradise 
We  gayly  passed,  —  till  Nature  wrougnt 
A  silent  and  unlooked-for  change, 
That  checked  the  desultory  range 
Of  joy  and  sprightly  thought. 


THE    ECLIPSE    OF    THE    SUN.  165 

Where'er  was  dipped  the  toiling  oar, 
The  waves  danced  round  us  as  before, 
As  lightly,  though  of  altered  hue, 
'Mid  recent  coolness,  such  as  falls 
At  noontide  from  umbrageous  walls 
That  screen  the  morning  dew. 

No  vapor  stretched  its  wings  ;  no  cloud 

Cast  far  or  near  a  murky  shroud  ; 

The  sky  an  azure  field  displayed  ; 

'T  was  sunlight  sheathed  and  gently  charmed 

Of  all  its  sparkling  rays  disarmed, 

And  as  in  slumber  laid,  — 

Or  something  night  and  day  between. 
Like  moonshine,  —  but  the  hue  was  green; 
Still  moonshine,  without  shadow,  spread 
On  jutting  rock,  and  curved  shore. 
Where  gazed  the  peasant  from  his  door 
And  on  the  mountain's  head. 

It  tinged  the  Julian  steeps,  —  it  lay, 
Lugano  !  on  thy  ample  bay  ; 
The  solemnizing  veil  was  drawn 
O'er  villas,  terraces,  and  towers  ; 
To  Albogasio's  olive  bowers, 
Porlezza's  verdant  lawn. 

But  Fancy  with  the  speed  of  fire 
Hath  passed  to  Milan's  loftiest  spire, 


l6G  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  there  alights  'raid  that  aerial  host 
Of  figures  human  and  divine,* 
White  as  the  snows  of  Apennin'* 
Indurated  by  frost. 

Awe-stricken  she  beholds  the  array 

That  guards  the  Temple  night  and  day  ; 

Angels  she  sees,  that  might  from  heaven  have  flown, 

And  Virgin-saints,  who  not  in  vain 

Plave  striven  by  purity  to  gain 

Tiie  beatific  crown,  — 

Sees  long-drawn  files,  concentric  rings 
Each  narrowing  above  each  ; — the  wings, 
The  uplifted  palms,  the  silent  marble  lips, 
The  starry  zone  of  sovex'eign  height,t  — 
All  steeped  in  this  portentous  light ! 
All  suffering  dim  eclipse  ! 

Thus  afler  Man  had  fallen,  (if  aught 
These  perishable  spheres  have  wrought 
May  with  that  issue  be  compared,) 
Throngs  of  celestial  visages, 
Darkening  like  water  in  the  breeze, 
A  holy  sadness  shared. 

Lo !  while  I  speak,  the  laboring  Sun 
His  glad  deliverance  has  begun: 

*  See  Note. 

t  Above  tho  highest  circle  of  figures  is  a  zone  of  metaliio  i'.>:v 


THE    ECLIPSE    OF    THE    SUJi.  167 

The  cypress  waves  her  sombre  plume 
More  cheerily  ;  and  town  and  tower, 
The  vineyard  and  the  ohve-bower 
Their  lustre  reassume  ' 

0  Ye,  who  guard  and  grace  my  home 
While  in  far-distant  lands  we  roam, 

What  countenance  hath  this  Day  put  on  for  you  ? 
While  we  looked  round  with  favored  eyes. 
Did  sullen  mists  hide  lake  and  skies 
And  mountains  from  your  view  ? 

Or  was  it  given  you  to  behold 

Like  vision,  pensive  though  not  cold. 

From  the  smooth  breast  of  gay  Winandermere  ' 

Saw  ye  the  soft  yet  awful  veil 

Spread  over  Grasmere's  lovely  dale, 

Helvellyn's  brow  severe  ? 

1  ask  in  vain,  —  and  know  far  less 
If  sickness,  sorrow,  or  distress 

Have  spared  my  Dwelling  to  this  hour ; 
Sad  blindness  !  but  oi-dained  to  prove 
Our  faith  in  Heaven's  unfailing  love 
\nd  all-controlling  power. 


168  rOEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXVIII. 


THE  THREE   COTTAGE   GIRLS. 


Plow  blest  the  Maid  whose  heart  —  yet  free 

From  Love's  uneasy  sovereignty  — 

Beats  with  a  fancy  running  high, 

Her  sinoiple  cares  to  magnify  ; 

^¥hom  Labor,  never  urged  to  toil. 

Hath  cherished  on  a  healtliful  soil ; 

Who  knows  not  pomp,  who  heeds  not  pelf; 

Whose  heaviest  sin  it  is  to  look 

Askance  upon  her  pretty  Self 

Reflected  in  some  crystal  brook  ; 

Whom  grief  hath  spared,  —  who  sheds  no  teat 

But  in  sweet  pity  ;  and  can  heai* 

Another's  praise  from  envy  clear. 

ji. 

Su(;h,  (but,  0  lavish  Nature!  why 
That  dark,  unfathomable  eye, 
Where  lurks  a  Spirit  that  replies 
To  stillest  mood  of  softest  skies, 
Yet  hints  at  peace  to  be  o'erthrown, 
Another's  first,  and  then  her  own  ?) 
Such,  haply,  yon  Italian  Maid, 
Our  Lady's  laggard  Votaress, 
Halting  beneath  the  chestnut  shade 


THE    TUREE    COTTAGE    GIRLS.  169 

To  accomplish  there  her  loveliness  : 

Nice  aid  maternal  fingers  lend  ; 

A  Sister  serves  with  slacker  hand , 

Then,  glittering  like  a  star,  she  joms  the  festal  band 

in. 

How  blest  (if  truth  may  entertain 

Coy  fancy  with  a  bolder  strain) 

The  Helvetian  Girl,  —  who  daily  braves, 

Li  her  light  skiff,  the  tossing  waves, 

And  quits  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

Only  to  climb  the  rugged  steep ! 

—  Say  whence  that  modulated  shout ! 

From  Wood-nymph  of  Diana's  throng  ? 

Or  does  the  greeting  to  a  rout 

Of  giddy  Bacchanals  belong  ? 

Jubilant  outcry!  rock  and  glade 

Resounded,  —  but  the  voice  obeyed 

The  breath  of  an  Helvetian  Maid. 

IV. 

Her  beauty  dazzles  the  thick  wood  ; 

Her  courage  animates  the  flood  ; 

Her  steps  the  elastic  greensward  meets, 

Returning  unreluctant  sweets  ; 

The  mountains  (as  ye  heard)  rejoice 

Aloud,  saluted  by  her  voice  ! 

Blithe  Paragon  of  Alpine  grace, 

Be  as  thou  art,  —  for  through  thy  veins 

The  blood  of  Heroes  runs  its  i*ace  ! 


I70  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGIKATION. 

And  nobly  wilt  thou  brook  tlie  chains 
That,  for  the  virtuous,  Life  prepares  ; 
The  fetters  which  the  Matron  wears  ; 
The  patriot  Mother's  weight  of  anxious  cares  I 


*  "  Sweet  Highland  Girl !  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  was  thy  earthly  dower," 

When  thou  didst  flit  before  mine  eyes, 

Gay  Vision  under  sullen  skies, 

While  Hope  and  Love  around  thee  played, 

Near  the  rough  falls  of  Liversneyd! 

Have  they,  who  nursed  the  blossom,  seen 

No  breach  of  promise  in  the  fruit  ? 

Was  joy,  in  following  joy,  as  keen 

As  grief  can  be  in  grief's  pursuit  ? 

When  youth  had  flown,  did  hope  still  bless 

Thy  goings,  —  or  the  cheerfulness 

Of  innocence  survive  to  mitigate  distress  ? 

VI. 

But  from  our  course  why  turn,  to  tread 
A  way  with  shadows  overspread  ; 
Where  what  we  gladliest  would  believe 
Is  feared  as  what  may  most  deceive  ? 
Bright  Spirit,  not  with  amaranth  crowned, 
But  heath-bells  from  thy  native  ground, 
I'ime  cannot  thin  thy  flowing  hair, 

*  See  address  to  a  Highland  Girl,  p.  13. 


SONNET.  171 

Nor  take  one  ray  of  light  from  thee  ; 

For  in  my  Fancy  thou  dost  share 

Tlie  gift  of  immortahty  ; 

And  there  shall  bloom,  with  thee  allied, 

The  Votaress  by  Lugano's  side, 

And  that  intrepid  Nymph  on  Uri's  steep  descried ! 


XXIX. 

THE  COLUMN  INTENDED  BY  BUONAPARTE  FOR  A  TRIUMPHAL 
EDIFICE  IN  MILAN,  NOW  LYING  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE  IX  THE 
SIMPLON  PASS. 

Ambition,  —  following  down  this  far-famed  slope 
Her  Pioneer,  the  snow-dissolving  Sun, 
Wiiile  clarions  prate  of  kingdoms  to  be  won,  — 
Perchance,  in  future  ages,  here  may  stop  ; 
Taught  to  mistrust  her  flattering  horoscope 
By  admonition  from  this  prostrate  Stone  ! 
Memento  uninscribed  of  Pride  o'erthi-own  ; 
Vanity's  hieroglyphic  ;  a  choice  trope 
In  Fortune's  rhetoric.     Daughter  of  the  Rock, 
Rest  where  thy  course  was  stayed  by  Power  Divine ! 
The  Soul  transported  sees,  from  hint  of  thine, 
Crimes  which  the  great  Avenger's  hand  provoke, 
Hears  combats  whistlingo'er  the  ensanguined  heath : 
What  groans !  what  shrieks !  what  quietness  in  death  J 


172  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 

XXX. 

STANZAS, 

COMPOSED   IN  THE  SIMPLON  PASS. 

Vallombrosa  !  I  longed  in  thy  shadiest  wood 
To  slumber,  reclined  on  the  moss-covered  floor, 
To  listen  to  Anio's  precipitous  flood, 
When  the  stillness  of  evening  hath  deepened  its  roar; 
To  range  through  the  Temples  of  P^stum,  to  muse 
In  Pompeii  preserved  by  her  burial  in  earth  ; 
On  pictures  to  gaze  where  they  drank  in  their  hues  ; 
And  murmur  sweet  songs  on  the  ground  of  their 
birth ! 

The  beauty  of  Florence,  the  grandeur  of  Rome, 
Could  I  leave  them  unseen,  and  not  yield  to  regret  ? 
With  a  hope  (and  no  more)  for  a  season  to  come, 
Which  ne'er  may  discharge  the  magnificent  debt  ? 
Thou  fortunate  Region !  whose  Greatness  inurned 
Awoke  to  new  life  from  its  ashes  and  dust ; 
Twice-glorified  fields  !  if  in  sadness  I  turned 
From  your  infinite  marvels,  the  sadness  was  just. 

Now,  risen  ere  the  light-footed  Chamois  retires 
From  dew-sprinkled  grass  to  heights  guarded  with 

snow, 
Towai'd  the  mists  that  hang  over  the  land  of  my 

Sires, 
From  the  chmate  of  myrtles  contented  I  go. 


ECHO,    UPON    THE    GEMMI.  173 

My  thoughts  become  bright  Hke  yon  edging  of  Pines 
On  the  steep's  lofty  verge :  how  it  blackened  the  air ! 
But,  touched  from  behind  by  the  Sun,  it  now  shines 
With  threads  that  seem  part  of  his  own  silver  hair 

Though  the  toil  of  the  way  with  dear  Friends  we 

divide, 
Though  by  the  same  zephyr  our  temples  be  fanned 
As  we  rest  in  the  cool  orange-bower  side  by  side, 
A  yearning  survives  which  few  hearts  shall  with- 
stand : 
Each  step  hath  its    value   while  homeward   we 

move ;  — 
0  joy  when  the  girdle  of  England  appears  ! 
What  moment  in  life  is  so  coiiscious  of  love. 
Of  love  in  the  heart  made  more  happy  by  tears  ? 


XXXI. 


ECHO,    UPON    THE   GEMMI. 


What  beast  of  chase  hath  broken  from  the  cover? 

Stern  Gejijii  listens  to  as  full  a  cry, 

As  multitudinous  a  harmony 

Of  sounds,  as  rang  the  heights  of  Latmos  over, 

When,  from  the  soft  couch  of  her  sleeping  Lover 

Upstarting,  Cynthia  skimmed  the  mountain-dew 

\i  keen  pursuit,  —  and  gave,  where'er  she  How 


174  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Impetuous  motion  to  tlie  Stars  above  her. 

A  solitary  AVolf-dog,  ranging  on 

Through  the  bleak  concave,  wakes  this  wondrous 
chime 

Of  aery  voices  locked  in  unison,  — 

Faint, — fai'-oflF, — neai', — deep, —  solemn  and  sub- 
lime !  — 

So,  fi-om  the  body  of  one  guilty  deed, 

A  thousand  ghostly  fears,  and  haunting  thoughts, 
proceed ! 


XXXII. 

PROCESSIONS. 
Suggested  on  a  Sabbath  Slorning  in  tbe  Vale  of  Chamonnv. 


■*oo^ 


To  appease  the  Gods ;  or  public  thanks  to  jaeld  ; 
Or  to  soUcit  knowledge  of  events, 
AVhich  in  her  breast  Futurity  concealed  ; 
And  that  the  Past  miglit  have  its  true  intents 
Feelingly  told  by  hving  monuments,  — 
Mankind  of  yore  were  prompted  to  devise 
Eites  such  as  yet  Persepolis  presents 
Graven  on  her  cankered  walls,  solemnities 
That  moved  in  long  array  before  admiring  eyes. 

The  Ilebrews  thus,  carrying  in  joyful  state 
riiick  boughs  of  palm,  and  willows  from  the  brook, 


PUOCESSIONS.  175 

Marclied  round  the  altar,  —  to  commemorate 
HoAV,  when  their  course  they  through  the  desert 

took, 
Guided  by  signs  which  ne'er  the  sky  forsook, 
They  lodged  in  leafy  tents  and  cabins  low  ; 
Green  boughs  were  borne,  while,  for  the  blast  that 

shook 
Down  to  the  earth  the  walls  of  Jericho, 
Shouts  rise,  and  storms  of  sound  from  lifted  trum- 
pets blow ! 

And  thus,  in  order,  'mid  the  sacred  grove 
Fed  in  the  Libyan  waste  by  gusliing  wells. 
The  priests  and  4amsels  of  Ammonian  Jove 
Provoked  responses  with  shrill  canticles  ; 
While,  in  a  ship  begirt  with  silver  bells, 
They  round  his  altar  bore  the  horned  God, 
Old  Cham,  the  solar  Deity,  who  dwells 
Aloft,  yet  in  a  tilting  vessel  rode, 
When  universal  sea  the  mountains  overflowed. 

AVliy  speak  of  Roman  Pomps  ?  the  haughty  claims 
Of  Chiefs  triumpliant  after  ruthless  wars  ; 
The  feast  of  Neptune,  —  and  the  Cereal  Games, 
With  images,  and  crowns,  and  empty  cars  ; 
The  dancing  Salii,  —  on  the  shields  of  Mars 
Smiting  with  fury;  and  a  deeper  dread 
Scattered  on  all  sides  by  the  hideous  jars 
3f  Corybantian  cymbals,  while  the  head 
Ot  Cybele  was  seen,  sublimely  turreted  ! 


176  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

At  length  a  Spirit  moi'e  subdued  and  soft 
Appeared,  to  govern  Cliristian  pageantries: 
The  Ci"Oss,  in  calm  procession  borne  aloft, 
Moved  to  the  chant  of  sober  litanies. 
Even  such,  tliis  day,  came  wafted  on  the  breeze 
Fi'om  a  long  train,  —  in  hooded  vestments  fair 
Enwrapt,  —  and  winding,  between  Alpine  trees 
Spirj  and  dark,  around  their  House  of  Prayer, 
Below  the  icy  bed  of  bright  Akgentiere. 

Still  in  the  vivid  freshness  of  a  dream, 
The  pageant  haunts  me  as  it  met  our  eyes ! 
Still,  with  those  white- robed  Shapes,  —  a  living 

Stream,  — 
The  glacier  Pillars  join  in  solemn  guise  * 
For  the  same  service,  by  mysterious  ties ; 
Numbers  exceeding  credible  account 
Of  number,  pure  and  silent  Votaries 
Issuing  or  issued  fiom  a  wintry  fount ; 
The  impenetrable  heart  of  that  exalted  Mount ! 

They,  too,  who  send  so  far  a  holy  gleam 
While  they  the  Church  engird  with  motion  slow, 
A  product  of  that  awful  Mountain  seem. 
Poured  from  his  vaults  of  everlasting  snow  ; 
Not  virgin  liHes  marshalled  in  bright  row, 
Not  swans  descending  with  the  stealthy  tide, 
A  livelier  sisterly  resemblance  show, 

*  See  Note. 


ELEGIAC    STANZAS.  177 

Than  the  fair  Forms,  that  in  long  order  glide, 
Bear  to  the  glacier  band,  —  those  Shapes   aloft 
described. 

Trembling,  I  look  upon  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  licentious  craving  in  the  mind 
To  act  the  God  among  external  things, 
To  blind,  on  apt  suggestion,  or  unbind ; 
And  marvel  not  that  antique  Faith  inclined 
To  crowd  the  world  with  metamorphosis, 
Vouchsafed  in  pity  or  in  wrath  assigned  ; 
Such  insolent  temptations  wouldst  thou  miss, 
Avoid  these  sights ;  nor  brood  o'er  Fable's  dark 
'  abyss ! 


XXXIIl. 
ELEGIAC   STANZAS. 

The  lairented  Youth  wliose  untimely  death  gave  occasion  to' 
these  elegiac  verses,  Avas  Frederick  William  Goddard,  from 
Boston  in  North  Amei'ica.  He  was  in  his  twentieth  year,  and 
had  resided  for  some  time  with  a  clergyman  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Geneva  for  the  completion  of  his  education.  Accompanied 
by  a  fellow-pupil,  a  native  of  Scotland,  he  had  just  set  out  on 
a  Swiss  tour,  when  it  was  his  misfortune  to  fall  in  with  a  friend 
t)f  mine  who  was  hastening  to  join  our  party.  The  travellers, 
a'ter  spending  a  daj'  together  on  the  road  from  Berne  and  at 
Soieure,  took  leave  of  each  other  at  night,  the  young  men  having 
intended  to  proceed  directly  to  Zurich.  But  early  in  the  morn 
tiig  my  friend  found  his  new  acquaintances,  who  were  in- 
"•^rmed  of  the  object  of  his  journey,  and  the  friends  he  was  in 

VOL,  III.  12 


J  78  POE.MS    OF    THE    IMAGINATIOX. 

pursuit  of,  equipped  to  accompany  him.  We  met  at  LuceiT.e 
the  succeeding  evening,  and  Mr.  Goddard  and  his  fellow-student 
became  in  consequence  oui-  travelling  companions  for  a  couple 
of  daj-s.  We  ascended  the  Righi  together;  and,  after  con- 
templating the  sam'ise  from  that  noble  mountain,  we  separat- 
ed at  an  hour  and  on  a  spot  well  suited  to  the  parting  of  those 
who  were  to  meet  no  more.  Our  partj'  descended  through  the 
valley  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,  and  our  late  companions,  to 
Art.  We  had  hoped  to  meet  in  a  few  weeks  at  Geneva ;  but 
on  the  third  succeeding  day  (on  the  21st  of  August)  Mr.  God- 
dard perished,  being  overset  in  a  boat  while  crossing  the  Lake 
of  Zurich.  His  companion  saved  himself  by  swimming,  and 
was  hospitably  received  in  the  mansion  of  a  Swiss  gentleman 
(M.  Keller)  situated  on  the  eastern  coast  of  the  lake.  The 
corpse  of  poor  Goddard  was  cast  ashore  on  the  estate  of  the 
same  gentleman,  who  generously  perfonned  all  the  rites  oi 
iiospitality  which  could  be  rendered  to  the  dead  as  well  as  to 
the  living.  He  caused  a  handsome  mural  monument  to  be 
erected  in  the  church  of  KQsnacht,  which  records  the  prema- 
ture fate  of  the  young  American,  and  on  the  shores  too  of  the 
lake  the  traveller  may  read  an  inscription  pointhig  out  the 
ipot  where  the  body  was  deposited  by  the  waves. 

Lulled  by  the  sound  of  pastoral  bells, 
Rude  Nature's  Pilgrims  did  we  go, 
From  the  dread  summit  of  the  Queen  * 
Of  Mountains,  through  a  deep  ravine, 
Where,  in  her  holy  chapel,  dwells 
"  Our  Lady  of  the  Snow." 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  air  was  mild  ; 

Free  were  the  streams  and  green  the  bowePB : 

As  if,  to  rough  assaults  unknown, 

*   Blount  Righi,  —  Reglna  Montmm. 


ELEGIAC    STANZAS.  179 

The  genial  spot  had  ever  shown 

A  countenance  that  as  sweetly  smiled, — 

The  face  of  summer  hours. 

And  we  were  gay,  our  hearts  at  ease  ; 
With  pleasure  dancing  through  the  frame 
We  journeyed  ;  all  we  knew  of  care, 
Our  path  that  straggled  here  and  there  ; 
Of  trouble,  but  the  fluttering  breeze  ; 
Of  Winter,  but  a  name. 

If  foresight  could  have  rent  the  veil 

Of  three  short  days  —  but  hush  !  —  no  more  ! 

Calm  is  the  grave,  and  calmer  none 

Than  that  to  which  thy  cares  are  gone. 

Thou  Victim  of  the  stormy  gale. 

Asleep  on  Zurich's  shore  ! 

0  (tOddard  !  —  what  art  thou? — a  name, — > 
A  sunbeam  followed  by  a  shade  ! 
Nor  more,  for  aught  that  time  supplies. 
The  great,  the  experienced,  and  the  wise : 
Too  much  fi-om  this  frail  earth  we  claim, 
And  therefore  are  beti-ayed. 

We  met,  while  festive  mirth  ran  wild, 
Where,  from  a  deep  lake's  mighty  urn, 
Forth  slips,  like  an  enfranchised  slave, 
A  sea-green  river,  proud  to  lave, 
With  current  swift  and  uiidefiled, 
The  towers  of  old  Lucerne. 


180  POEMS    OF    TUE    IMAGINATION. 

We  parted  upon  solemn  ground 
Far-lifted  towards  the  unfading  sky  ; 
But  all  our  thoughts  were  then  of  Earth, 
That  gives  to  common  pleasures  birth  : 
And  nothmg  in  our  hearts  we  found 
That  prompted  even  a  sigh. 

Fetch,  sympathizing  Powers  of  Air, 
Fetch,  ye  that  post  o'er  seas  and  lands, 
Herbs  moistened  by  Virginian  dew, 
A  most  untimely  grave  to  strew, 
Whose  turf  may  never  know  the  care 
Of  kindred  human  hands  ! 

Beloved  by  every  gentle  Muse 

He  left  his  Transatlantic  home : 

Europe,  a  realized  romance, 

Had  opened  on  his  eager  glance  ; 

What  present  bliss  !  —  what  golden  views  ! 

Wiiat  stores  for  years  to  come  ! 

Though  lodged  within  no  vigorous  frame. 
His  soul  her  daily  tasks  renewed, 
Blithe  as  the  lark  on  sun-gilt  wings 
High  poised,  —  or  as  the  wren  that  sings 
In  shady  places,  to  proclaim 
Her  modest  gratitude. 

Not  vain  is  sadly-uttered  praise  ; 
The  words  of  truth's  memorial  vow 
Are  sweet  as  morning  fragrance  shed 


ELKGIAC    STANZAS.  IPl 

From  flowers  'mid  Goldau's  ruins  bred  ; 
As  evening's  fondly-lingering  rays, 
On  RiGHi's  silent  brow. 

Lamented  Youth !  to  tliy  cold  clay 
Fit  obsequies  the  Stranger  paid  ; 
And  piety  shall  guard  the  Stone 
Which  hath  not  left  the  spot  unknown 
Where  the  wild  waves  resigned  their  prey,  — 
And  that  which  mai'ks  thy  bed. 

And  when  thy  Mother  weeps  for  thee, 
Lost  Youth !  a  solitary  Mother ; 
This  tribute  from  a  casual  Friend 
A  not  unwelcome  aid  may  lend, 
To  feed  the  tender  luxury, 
The  rising  pang  to  smother.* 

*  The  persuasion  here  expressed  -was  not  groundless.  The 
first  human  consolation  that  the  afflicted  ISIother  felt  was  de- 
rived from  this  tribute  to  her  Son's  memory,  a  fact  wliich  the 
author  learned,  at  his  own  residence,  from  her  Daughter,  who 
visited  Europe  some  years  afterwards.  —  Goldau  is  one  of  th' 
villages  desolated  by  the  fall  of  part  of  the  Mountain  Faot 
berg. 


1&2  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XXXIV. 

SKY-PROSPECT,  —  FROM  THE   PLAIN   OF  PRANOt 

Lo !  in  the  burning  west,  the  craggy  nape 
Of  a  proud  Ararat !  and,  tliereupon, 
The  Ark,  her  melancholy  voyage  done ! 
Yon  rampant  cloud  mimics  a  lion's  shape  ; 
There,  combats  a  huge  crocodile,  agape 
A  golden  spear  to  swallow  !  and  that  brown 
And  massy  grove,  so  near  yon  blazing  town, 
Stirs  and  recedes,  destruction  to  escape  ! 
Yet  all  is  harmless,  —  as  the  Elysian  shades 
Where  Spirits  dwell  in  undisturbed  repose,  — 
Silently  disappears,  or  quickly  fades  : 
Meek  Nature's  evening  comment  on  the  shows, 
That  for  oblivion  take  their  daily  birth 
From  all  the  fuming  vanities  of  Earth  ! 

XXXV. 

ON   BEING   STRANDED   NEAR  THE   HARBOR  OF   BOULOGNE.* 

Why  cast  ye  back  upon  the  Gallic  shore, 
Ye  furious  waves  !  a  patriotic  Son 
Of  England,  who  in  hope  her  coast  had  won, 
His  pi'oject  crowned,  his  pleasant  travel  o'er  ? 
Well,  let  him  pace  this  noted  beach  once  more. 
That  gave  the  Roman  his  triumphal  shells ; 
That  saw  the  Corsican  his  cap  and  bells 

*  See  Note. 


SONNETS.  ISO 

Haughtily  shake,  a  dreaming  Conqueror  !  — 
Enough  :  my  Country's  cliffs  I  can  behold, 
And  proudly  think,  beside  the  chafing  sea, 
Of  checked  ambition,  tyranny  controlled, 
And  folly  cursed  with  endless  memory : 
These  local  recollections  ne'er  can  cloy ; 
Such  ground  I  from  my  very  heart  enjoy ! 


XXXVI. 
AFTER  UA.ND1XG. — THE   VALLEY   OF   DOVER.      NoV.,    lt!20. 

Where  be  the  noisy  followers  of  the  game 
Which  faction  breeds  ;  the  turmoil  where  ?   that 

passed 
Through  Europe,  echoing  from  the  newsman's  blast, 
And  filled  our  hearts  with  grief  for  England's  shame. 
Peace  greets  us  ;  —  rambling  on  without  an  aim, 
We  mark  majestic  herds  of  cattle,  free 
To  ruminate,  couched  on  the  grassy  lea ; 
And  hear  far  off  the  mellow  horn  proclaim 
The  Season's  harmless  pastime.     Ruder  sound 
Stirs  not ;  enrapt  I  gaze  with  strange  delight, 
While  consciousnesses,  not  to  be  disowned. 
Here  only  serve  a  feeling  to  invite 
That  Hfts  the  spirit  to  a  calmer  height. 
And  makes  this  rural  stillness  more  profound. 


IS'l  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XXXVII. 
AT   DOVER. 

From  the  Pier's  head,  musing,  and  with  increase 
Of  wonder,  I  have  watched  this  sea-side  Town, 
Under  the  white  cliff's  battleraerited  crown. 
Hushed  to  a  depth  of  more  than  Sabbath  peace  : 
The  streets  and  quays  are  thronged,  but  why  disown 
Their  natural  utterance?  whence  this  strange  re- 
lease 
From  social  noise, — silence  elsewhere  unknown  ?  — 
A  Spirit  whispei'ed,  "  Let  all  wondei  cease  ; 
Ocean's  o'erpowering  murmurs  have  rsct  tree 
Thy  sense  from  pressure  of  lifers  common  din ; 
As  the  dread  Voice  that  speaks  aom  out  the  pea 
Of  God's  eternal  Word,  the  Voice  of  Time 
Doth  deaden,  shocks  of  tumult,  shrieks  of  crinae» 
The  shouts  of  folly,  and  the  groans  of  sin." 


XXXVIII. 
DESULTORY  STANZAS. 

UPON   RECEIVING   THE  PKECEDING    SHliETS   FROM   THE 
PRESS. 

Is  then  the  final  page  before  me  spread, 
Nor  further  outlet  left  to  mind  or  heart  ? 
Presumptuous  Book !  too  forward  to  be  read, 
How  can  I  give  thee  license  to  depart  ? 


DESULTORY    STANZAS.  18;) 

One  tribute  more  :  unbidden  feelings  start 
Fortli  from  their  coverts  ;  slighted  objects  rise ; 
My  spirit  is  the  scene  of  such  wild  art 
As  on  Parnassus  rules,  when  lightning  flies, 
Visibly  leading  on  the  thunder's  harmonies. 

All  that  I  saw  returns  upon  my  view, 
All  that  I  heard  comes  back  upon  my  ear, 
All  that  I  felt  this  moment  doth  renew ; 
And  where  the  foot  witli  no  unmanly  fear 
Recoiled,  —  and  wings  alone  could  travel,  —  there 
I  move  at  ease  ;  and  meet  contending  themes 
That  press  upon  me,  crossing  the  career 
Of  recollections  vivid  as  the  dreams 
Of  midnight,  —  cities,  plains,  forests,  and  mighty 
streams. 

Where  Mortal  never  breathed,  I  dare  to  sit 

Among  the  interior  Alps,  gigantic  crew. 

Who  triumphed  o'er  diluvian  power  !  —  and  yet 

What  are  they  but  a  wreck  and  residue. 

Whose  only  business  is  to  perish  ?  —  true 

To  which  sad  course,  these  wrinkled  Sons  of  Time 

Labor  their  proper  greatness  to  subdue  ; 

Speaking  of  death  alone,  beneath  a  clime 

Where  life  and  rapture  flow  in  plenitude  sublime. 

Fancy  hath  flung  for  me  an  airy  bridge 
4cross  thy  long,  deep  Valley,  furious  Rhone  ! 
Arch  that  here  rests  upon  the  granite  ridge 


186  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Of  Monte  Rosa,  —  there  on  frailer  stone 
Of  secondary  birth,  the  Jung-frau's  cone  ; 
And  from  that  arch  down-looking  on  the  Vale, 
The  aspect  I  behold  of  every  zone  ; 
A  sea  of  foliage,  tossing  with  the  gale, 
Blithe  Autumn's  purple  crown,  and  Winter's  icy 
mail! 


Far  as  St.  Maurice,  from  yon  eastern  Forks,* 
Down  the  main  avenue  my  sight  can  range  : 
And  all  its  branchy  vales,  and  all  that  lurks 
Within  them,  church,  and  town,  and  hut,  and  grange, 
For  my  enjoyment  meet  in  vision  strange ; 
Snows,  torrents  ;  —  to  the  region's  utmost  bound. 
Life,  Death,  in  amicable  interchange  ;  — 
But  list !  the  avalanche,  — the  hush  profound 
That  follows,  —  yet  more  awful  than  that  awful 
sound  ! 

Is  not  the  chamois  suited  to  his  place  ? 

The  eagle  worthy  of  her  ancestry  ? 

— •  Let  Empires  fall ;  but  ne'er  shall  ye  disgrace 

Yoin-  noble  birthright,  ye  that  occupy 

Your  council-seats  beneath  the  open  sky, 

On  Sarneu's  Mount,  f  there  judge  of  fit  and  right, 

In  simple  democratic  majesty  ; 

Soft  breezes  fanning  your  rough  brows,  —  the  might 

And  purity  of  nature  spread  before  your  sight ! 

*'  At  the  head  of  the  Vallais.     See  Note.        t  See  Note. 


DESULTORY    STANZAS.  187 

From  this  appropriate  Court,  renowned  Lucekne 
Calls    me  to  pace  her  honored  Bridge,*  —  that 

cheers 
The  Patriot's  heart  with  pictures  rude  and  stern, 
An  uncouth  Chronicle  of  glorious  yeai's. 
Like  portraiture,  from  loftier  source,  endears 
That  work  of  kindred  frame,  which  spans  the  lake 
Just  at  the  point  of  issue,  where  it  fears 
The  form  and  motion  of  a  stream  to  take ; 
"Where  it  begins  to  stir,  yet  voiceless  as  a  snake. 

Volumes  of  sound,  from  the  Cathedral  rolled, 
This  long-roofed  vista  peneti-ate,  —  but  see, 
One  after  one,  its  tablets,  that  unfold 
The  whole  design  of  Scripture  history  ; 
From  the  fii'st  tasting  of  the  fatal  tree. 
Till  the  bright  star  appeared  in  eastern  skie&, 
Announcing,  One  was  born  mankind  to  free; 
His  acts,  his  wrongs,  his  final  sacrifice ; 
Lessons  for  every  heart,  a  Bible  for  all  eyes. 

Our  pride  misleads,  our  timid  likings  kill. 

•  —  Long  may  these  homely  Works  devised  of  old, 

These  simple  efforts  of  Helvetian  skill, 

Aid,  with  congenial  influence,  to  uphold 

The  State,  —  the  Country's  destiny  to  mould  ; 

Turning,  for  them  who  pass,  the  common  dust 

Of  servile  opportunity  to  gold  ; 

*  See  Note. 


188  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Filling  the  soul  with  sentiments  august,  — 
The  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  holy,  and  the  just ! 

No  more ;  Time  halts  not  in  his  noiseless  march, 
Nor  turns,  nor  winds,  as  doth  the  liquid  flood ; 
Life  slips  from  underneath  us,  like  that  arch 
Of  airy  workmanship  whereon  we  stood. 
Earth  stretched  below,  heaven  in  our  neighborhood 
Go  forth,  my  little  Book !  pursue  thy  way ; 
Go  forth,  and  please  the  gentle  and  the  good  ; 
Nor  be  a  whisper  stifled,  if  it  say 
That  treasux'es,  yet  untouched,  may  grace  soiae 
future  Lay. 


MEMORIALS   OF   A   TOUR  IN  ITALY 

1837. 


TO    HENRY    CRABB    ROBINSON. 

Companion  !  by  whose  buoyant  spirit  cheered^ 
In  whose  experience  trusting,  day  by  day 
Treasures  I  gained  with  zeal  that  neither  feared 
The  toils  nor  felt  the  crosses  of  the  way, 
These  records  take,  and  happy  should  I  be 
Were  but  the  gift  a  meet  return  to  thee 
For  kindnesses  that  never  ceased  to  flow. 
And  prompt  self-sacrifice  to  which  I  owe 
Far  more  than  any  heart  biit  mine  can  know. 

W.   WORDSWORTH. 
RiDAL  Mount,  Feb.  lith,  1842. 


The  Tour  of  which  the  following  Poems  are  very  inadequate 
remembrances  was  shortened  by  report,  too  well  founded,  of 
the  prevalence  of  Cholera  at  Naples.  To  make  some  amends 
for  what  was  reluctantly  left  unseen  in  the  South  of  Italy,  we 
visited  the  Tuscan  Sanctuaries  among  the  Apennines,  and  the 
orincipal  Italian  Lakes  among  the  Alps.  Neither  of  those 
lakes,  nor  of  Venice,  is  there  any  notice  in  these  Poems,  chiefly 
because  I  have  touciied  upon  them  elsewhere.  See,  in  partic- 
dlar,  "  Descriptive  Sketches,"  "  Memorials  of  a  Tour  on  the 
Continent  in  1820,"  and  a  Sonnet  upon  the  extinction  of  the 
■/enetian  Republic. 


190  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


MUSINGS  NEAR  AQUAPENDENTE. 
Apri.,  i83.. 

Ye  Apennines!  with  all  jour  fertile  vales 
Deeply  embosomed,  and  your  winding  shores 
Of  either  sea,  an  Islander  by  birth, 
A  Mountaineer  by  habit,  would  resound 
Your  praise,  in  meet  accordance  with  your  claims 
Bestowed  by  Nature,  or  from  man's  great  deeds 
Inherited  :  —  presumptuous  thought !  —  it  fled 
Like  vapor,  like  a  towering  cloud,  dissolved. 
Not,  therefore,  shall  my  mind  give  way  to  sad- 
ness ;  — 
Yon  snow-white  torrent-fall,  plumb  down  it  drops, 
Yet  ever  hangs  or  seems  to  hang  in  air. 
Lulling  the  leisure  of  that  high  percijed  town, 
Aquapendente,  in  her  lofty  site. 
Its  neighbor  and  its  namesake,  —  town,  and  flood 
Forth  flashing  out  of  its  own  gloomy  chasm 
Bright  sunbeams,  —  the  fresh  verdure  of  this  lawn 
Strewn  with  gray  rocks,  and  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  intervenient  waste,  through  glimmering  haze, 
Unquestionably  kenned,  that  cone-shaped  hill 
With  fractured  summit,  no  indifferent  sight 
To  travellers,  from  such  comforts  as  are  thine. 
Bleak  Radicofani !  escaped  with  joy,  — 
These  are  before  me  ;  and  the  varied  scene 
M:iy  well  suffice,  till  noontide's  sultry  heat 


MUSINGS    NEAR    AQUAPENDENTE.  191 

Relax,  to  fix  and  satisfy  the  mind 

Passive  jet  pleased.     What !  with  this  Broom  in 

flower 
Close  at  my  side  !     She  bids  me  fly  to  greet 
Her  sisters,  soon  like  her  to  be  attired 
"With  golden  blossoms  opening  at  the  feet 
Of  my  own  Fairfield.     The  glad  greeting  given, 
Given  with  a  voice  and  by  a  look  returned 
Of  old  companionship,  Time  counts  not  minutes, 
Ere,  from  accustomed  paths,  familiar  fields. 
The  local  Genius  hurries  me  aloft, 
Transported  over  that  cloud-wooing  hill, 
Seat  Sandal,  a  fond  suitor  of  the  clouds, 
With  dream-like  smoothness,  to  Helvellyn's  lop, 
There  to  alight  upon  crisp  moss  and  range, 
Obtaining  ampler  boon,  at  every  step. 
Of  visual  sovereignty,  —  hills  multitudinous, 
(Not  Apeunine  can  boast  of  fairer,)  hills 
Pride  of  two  nations,  wood  and  lake  and  plains, 
And  prospect  right  below  of  deep  coves  shaped 
By  skeleton  arms,  that,  from  the  mountain's  trunk 
Extended,  clasp  the  winds,  with  mutual  moan 
Struggling  for  liberty,  while  undismayed 
The  shepherd  struggles  with  them.     Onward  thence 
And  downward  by  the  skirt  of  Greenside  fell, 
A.nd  by  Glenridding-screes,  and  low  Glencoign, 
Places  forsaken  now,  though  loving  still 
The  Muses,  as  they  loved  them  in  the  days 
Of  the  old  minstrels  and  the  border  bards.  — 
^ut  here  am  I  fast  bound  ;  and  let  it  pass, 


192  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGIXATIOX. 

The  simple  rapture  ;  —  who  that  travels  far 
To  feed  his  mind  with  watchful  eyes  could  share 
Or  wish  to  share  it  ?  —  One  there  sui-ely  was, 
"  The  Wizard  of  tlie  North,"  with  anxious  hope 
Brought  to  this  genial  climate,  when  disease 
Preyed  upon  body  and  mind,  —  yet  not  the  less 
Had  his  sunk  eye  kindled  at  those  dear  words 
That  spake  of  bards  and  minstrels  ;  and  his  spirit 
Had  flown  with  mine  to  old  Helvellyn's  brow, 
Where  once  together,  in  his  day  of  strength, 
We  stood  rejoicing,  as  if  earth  were  free 
From  sorrow,  like  the  sky  above  our  heads. 

Years  followed  years,  and  when,  upon  the  eve 
Of  his  last  going  from  Tweed-side,  thought  turned, 
Or  by  another's  sympathy  was  led. 
To  this  bright  land,  Hope  was  for  him  no  friend, 
Knowledge  no  help  ;  Imagination  shaped 
No  promise.     Still,  in  more  than  ear-deep  seats, 
Survives  for  me,  and  cannot  but  survive. 
The  tone  of  voice  which  wedded  borrowed  words 
To  sadness  not  their  own,  when,  with  faint  smile, 
Forced  by  intent  to  take  from  speech  its  edge, 
He  said,  "  When  I  am  there,  although  't  is  fair, 
'T  will  be  another  Yarrow."     Pi-ophecy 
More  than  fulfilled,  as  gay  Campania's  shores 
Soon  witnessed,  and  the  City  of  Seven  Hills, 
Her  sparkling  fountains,  and  her  mouldering  tombs; 
And  more  than  all,  that  Eminence  which  showed 
Her  splendors,  seen,  not  felt,  the  while  he  stood 


MUSINGS    NEAR    AQUAPENDENTE.  193 

A  few  short  steps  (painful  they  were)  apart 
From  Tasso's  Convent-haven  and  retired  grave. 

Peace  to  their  Spirits  !  why  should  Poesy 
Yield  to  the  lure  of  vain  regret,  and  hover 
In  gloom  on  wings  with  confidence  outspread 
To  move  in  sunshine  ?  —  Utter  thanks,  my  Soul ! 
Tempered  with  awe,  and  sweetened  hy  compassion 
For  them  who  in  the  shades  of  sorrow  dwell, 
That  I  —  so  near  the  term  to  human  life 
Appointed  by  man's  common  heritage, 
Frail  as  the  frailest,  one  withal  (if  that 
Deserve  a  thought)  but  little  known  to  fame  — 
Am  free  to  rove  where  Nature's  loveliest  looks. 
Art's  noblest  relics,  History's  rich  bequests. 
Failed  to  reanimate  and  but  feebly  cheered 
The  whole  world's  Darling,  —  free  to  rove  at  will 
O'er  high  and  low,  and  if  requiring  rest. 
Rest  from  enjoyment  only. 

Thanks  poured  forth 
For  what  thus  far  hath  blessed  my  wanderings, 

thanks 
Fervent  but  humble  as  the  lips  can  breathe 
Wliere  gladness  seems  a  duty,  —  let  me  guard 
Those  seeds  of  expectation  which  the  fruit 
Already  gathered  in  this  favored  Land 
Enfolds  within  its  core.     The  faith  be  mine, 
Tliat  He  who  guides  and  governs  all,  approves 
When  gratitude,  though  disciplined  to  look 
Beyond  these  transient  spheres,  doth  wear  a  crown 

■'OL.   III.  13 


194  POEMS    OF    THE    IjIAGlNATION. 

Of  earthly  hope  put  on  with  trembhng  hand  ; 
Nor  is  least  pleased,  we  trust,  when  golden  beams, 
Reflected  through  the  mists  of  age,  from  hours 
Of  innocent  delight,  remote  or  recent, 
Shoot  but  a  little  way  —  't  is  all  they  can  — 
Into  the  doubtful  future.     "Who  would  keep 
Power  must  resolve  to  cleave  to  it  through  life, 
Else  it  deserts  him,  surely  as  he  lives. 
Saints  would  not  grieve  nor  guardian  angels  frown 
If  one  —  while  tossed,  as  was  my  lot  to  be. 
In  a  frail  bark  urged  by  two  slender  oars 
Over  waves  rough  and  deep,  that,  when  they  broke, 
Dashed  their  white  foam  against  the  palace-walls 
Of  Genoa  the  superb  —  should  there  be  led 
To  meditate  upon  his  own  appointed  tasks. 
However  humble  in  themselves,  with  thoughts 
Raised  and  sustained  by  memory  of  him 
Wlio  oftentimes  within  tho-;e  narrow  bounds 
Rocked  on  the  surge,  there  tried  his  spirit's  strength 
And  grasp  of  purpose,  long  ere  sailed  his  ship 
To  lay  a  new  world  open. 

Nor  less  prized 
Be  those  impressions  which  incline  the  heart 
To  mild,  to  lowly,  and  to  seeming  weak. 
Bend  that  way  her  desires.    The  dew,  the  storra,  — ■ 
The  dew  whose  moisture  fell  in  gentle  drops 
On  the  small  hyssop  destined  to  become. 
By  Hebrew  ordinance  devoutly  kept. 
A  purifying  instrument,  —  the  storm 
riiat  shook  on  Lebanon  the  cedar's  top, 


MUSINGS    XEAR    AQDAPENDENTE.  195 

A.nd  as  it  shook,  enabling  the  bhnd  roots 
Further  to  force  their  way,  endowed  its  trunk 
With  magnitude  and  strength  fit  to  uphold 
The  glorious  temple,  —  did  alike  proceed 
From  the  same  gracious  will,  were  both  an  offspring 
Of  bounty  infinite. 

Between  Powers  that  aim 
Higher  to  lift  their  lofty  heads,  impelled 
By  no  profane  ambition,  Powers  that  thrive 
By  conflict,  and  their  opposites,  that  trust 
In  lowliness,  —  a  mid-way  tract  there  lies 
Of  thoughtful  sentiment  for  every  mind 
Pregnant  with  good.     Young,  Middle-aged,  and 

Old, 
From  century  on  to  century,  must  have  known 
'riie  emotion,  —  nay,  more  fitly  were  it  said,  — 
The  blest  tranquillity  that  sunk  so  deep 
Into  my  spirit,  when  I  paced,  inclosed 
In  Pisa's  Carapo  Santo,  the  smooth  floor 
Of  its  Arcades  paved  with  sepulchral  slabs, 
And  through  each  window's  open  fret- work  looked 
O'er  the  blank  Area  of  sacred  earth 
Fetched  from  Mount  Calvary,  or  haply  delved 
In  precincts  nearer  to  the  Saviour's  tomb, 
By  hands  of  men,  humble  as  brave,  who  fought 
For  its  deliverance,  —  a  capacious  field 
That  to  descendants  of  the  dead  it  holds 
And  to  all  living  mute  memento  breathes, 
More  touching  far  than  aught  which  on  the  walla 
[s  j)ictured,  or  their  epitaphs  can  speak, 


lUG  rOEMS    OF    TUE    IMAGINATION. 

Of  the  changed  City's  long-departed  power, 

Gloiy,  and  wealth,  which,  perilous  as  they  arn. 

Here  did  not  kill,  but  nourished,  Piety. 

And,  high  above  that  length  of  cloistral  roof, 

Peering  in  air  and  backed  by  azure  sky, 

To  kindred  contemplations  ministers 

The  Baptistery's  dome,  and  that  which  swells 

From  the  Cathedral  pile  ;  and  with  the  twain 

Conjoined,  in  prospect  mutable  or  fixed, 

(As  hurry  on  in  eagerness  the  feet. 

Or  pause,)  the  summit  of  the  Leaning  Tower. 

Nor  less  remuneration  waits  on  him 

Who,  having  left  the  Cemetery,  stands 

In  the  Tower's  shadow,  of  decline  and  fall    . 

Admonished  not  without  some  sense  of  fear, 

Fear  that  soon  vanishes  before  the  sight 

Of  splendor  unextinguished,  pomp  unscathed. 

And  beauty  unimpaired.     Grand  in  itself, 

And  for  itself,  the  assemblage,  grand  and  fair 

To  view,  and  for  the  mind's  consenting  eye 

A  type  of  age  in  man,  upon  its  front 

Bearing  the  world-acknowledged  evidence 

Of  past  exploits,  nor  fondly  after  more 

Struggling  against  the  stream  of  destiny. 

But  with  its  peaceful  majesty  content. 

—  0  what  a  spectacle  at  every  turn 

The  Place  unfolds,  from  pavement  skinned  with 

moss, 
Or  grass-grown  spaces,  where  the  heaviest  foot 
Provokes  no  echoes,  but  must  softly  tread ; 


Musings  near  aquapendente.        1;)7 

Where  Solitude  with  Silence  paired  stops  short 
Of  Desolation,  and  to  Ruin's  scythe 
Decay  submits  not. 

But  where'er  my  steps 
Shall  wander,  chiefly  let  me  cull  with  care 
Those  images  of  genial  beauty,  oft 
Too  lovely  to  be  pensive  in  themselves, 
But  by  reflection  made  so,  which  do  best 
And  fitliest  serve  to  crown  with  fragrant  wreaths 
Life's  cup,  when  almost  filled  with  years,  like  mine. 
—  How  lovely  robed  in  forenoon  light  and  shade, 
Each  ministering  to  each,  didst  thou  appear, 
Savona,  Queen  of  territory  fair 
As  aught  that  marvellous  coast  thro'  all  its  length 
Yields  to  the  Stranger's  eye.     Remembrance  holds 
As  a  selected  treasure  thy  one  cliff. 
That,  while  it  wore  for  melancholy  crest 
A  shattered  Convent,  yet  rose  proud  to  have 
Clinging  to  its  steep  sides  a  thousand  herbs 
And  shrubs,  whose  pleasant  looks  gave  proof  how 
kind  • 

The  breath  of  air  can  be  where  earth  had  else 
Seemed  churlish.     And  behold,  both  far  and  near, 
Garden  and  field  all  decked  with  orange  bloom, 
And  peach  and  citron,  in  Spring's  mildest  breeze 
Expanding  ;  and,  along  the  smooth  shore  curved 
[nto  a  natural  port,  a  tideless  sea. 
To  that  mild  breeze  with  motion  and  with  voice 
Softly  responsive  ;  and,  attuned  to  all 
Tliose  vernal  charms  of  sight  and  sound,  appeared 


198  POEMS    OF    THE    niAGINATION. 

Smooth  space  of  turf  which  from  the  guardian  ftjii 
Sloped  seaward,  turf  whose  tender  April  green, 
In  coolest  climes  too  fugitive,  might  even  here 
Plead  with  the  sovereign  Sun  for  longer  stay 
Than  his  unmitigated  beams  allow, 
Nor  plead  in  vain,  if  beauty  could  preserve 
From  mortal  change  aught  that  is  born  on  eaith 
Or  doth  on  time  depend. 

While  on  the  brink 
Of  that  high  Convent-crested  cliff  I  stood, 
Modest  Savona  !  over  all  did  brood 
A  pure  poetic  Spirit,  —  as  the  breeze, 
Mild,  —  as  the    verdure,    fresh,  —  the   sunshine, 

bright,  — 
Thy  gentle  Chiabrera  !  —  not  a  stone, 
Mural  or  level  with  the  trodden  floor. 
In  Chui-ch  or  Chapel,  if  my  curious  quest 
Missed  not  the  truth,  retains  a  single  name 
Of  young  or  old,  warrior,  or  saint,  or  sage. 
To  whose  dear  memories  his  sepulchral  verse 
Paid  simple  tribute,  such  as  might  have  flowed 
From  the  clear  spring  of  a  plain  English  heart. 
Say  rather,  one  in  native  fellowship 
With  all  who  want  not  skill  to  couple  grief 
With  praise,  as  genuine  admiration  prompts. 
The  grief,  the  praise,  are  severed  from  their  dust, 
Yet  in  his  page  the  records  of  that  worth 
Survive,  uninjured;  —  glory  then  to  words, 
Honor  to  Avord-preserving  Arts,  and  hail, 
Ve  kindred  local  influences,  that  still, 


MUSINGS    NEAR    AQUAPENDENTE.  199 

If  Hope's  familiar  whispers  merit  faith, 
Await  my  steps  when  they  the  breezy  height 
Shall  range  of  philosophic  Tusculura  ; 
Or  Sabine  vales  explored  inspire  a  wish 
To  meet  the  shade  of  Horace  by  the  side 
Of  his  Blandusian  fount ;  or  I  invoke 
His  presence  to  point  out  the  spot  where  once 
He  sat,  and  eulogized  with  earnest  pen 
Peace,  leisure,  freedom,  moderate  desires  ; 
And  all  the  immunities  of  rural  life 
Extolled,  behind  Vacuna's  crumbling  fane. 
Or  let  me  loiter,  soothed  with  what  is  given, 
Nor  asking  more,  on  that  delicious  Bay, 
Parthenope's  Domain,  Virgilian  haunt, 
Illustrated  with  never-dying  verse, 
And,  by  the  Poet's  laurel-shaded  tomb. 
Age  after  age  to  Pilgrims  from  all  lands 
Endeared. 

And  who,  —  if  not  a  man  as  cold 
In  heart  as  dull  in  brain,  —  while  pacing  ground 
Chosen  by  Rome's  legendary  Bards,  high  minds 
Out  of  her  early  struggles  well  inspired 
To  localize  heroic  acts,  —  could  look 
Upon  the  spots  with  undelighted  eye, 
Though  even  to  their  last  syllable  the  Lays 
And  very  names  ef  those  who  gave  them  birth 
Have  perished  ?  —  Verily,  to  her  utmost  depth, 
Imagination  feels  what  Reason  fears  not 
To  recognize,  the  lasting  virtue  lodged 
In  those  bold  fictions  that,  by  deeds  assigned 


200  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

To  the  Valei'ian,  Fabian,  Curian  Race, 
And  others  like  in  fame,  created  Powers 
Witli  attributes  from  History  dei'ived, 
By  Poesy  irradiate,  and  yet  graced, 
Through  marvellous  felicity  of  skill. 
With  something  more  propitious  to  high  aims 
Than  either,  pent  within  her  separate  sphere, 
Can  oft  with  justice  claim. 

And  not  disdaining 
Union  with  those  primeval  energies 
To  virtue  consecrate,  stoop  ye  from  your  height. 
Christian  Traditions !  at  my  Spirit's  call 
Descend,  and  on  the  brow  of  ancient  Rome, 
As  she  survives  in  ruin,  manifest 
Your  glories  mingled  with  the  brightest  hues 
Of  her  memorial  halo,  fading,  fading. 
But  never  to  be  extinct  while  Earth  endures. 
O,  come,  if  undishonored  by  the  prayer, 
From  all  her  Sanctuaries  !  —  Open  for  my  feet. 
Ye  Catacombs,  give  to  mine  eyes  a  glimpse 
Of  the  Devout,  as,  'mid  your  glooms  convened 
For  safety,  they  of  yore  enclasped  the  Cross 
On  knees  that  ceased  from  trembling,  or  intoned 
Their  orisons  with  voices  half  suppressed. 
But  sometimes  heard,  or  fancied  to  be  heard, 
Even  at  this  hour. 

And  thou  Mamertine  prison, 
Into  that  vault  receive  me  from  whose  depth 
Issues,  revealed  in  no  presumptuous  vision, 
Albeit  lifting  human  to  divine, 


MCJSINOS    NEAK    AQUAPENDENTE.  201 

A.  Saint,  the  Church's  Rock,  the  mystic  Keys 
Grasped  in  his  hand  ;  and  lo  !  with  upright  sword 
Prefiguring  his  own  inapendent  doom, 
The  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  ;  both  prepared 
To  suffer  pains  with  heathen  scorn  and  hate 
Inflicted  ;  —  blessed  Men,  for  so  to  Heaven 
They  follow  their  dear  Lord  ! 

Time  flows,  —  nor  winds, 
Nor  stagnates,  nor  precipitates  his  course, 
But  many  a  benefit  borne  upon  his  breast 
For  human-kind  sinks  out  of  sight,  is  gone. 
No  one  knows  how  ;  nor  seldom  is  put  forth 
An  angry  arm  that  snatches  good  away, 
Never  perhaps  to  reappear.     The  Stream 
Has  to  our  generation  brought,  and  brings 
Innumerable  gains  ;  yet  we,  who  now 
Walk  in  the  light  of  day,  pertain  full  surely 
To  a  chilled  age,  most  pitiably  shut  out 
From  that  which  is  and  actuates,  by  forms, 
Abstractions,  and  by  lifeless  fact  to  fact 
Minutely  linked  with  diligence  uninspired, 
Unrectified,  unguided,  unsustained, 
By  godlike  insight.     To  this  fate  is  doomed 
Science,  wide-spread  and  spreading  still  as  be 
Her  conquests,  in  the  world  of  sense  made  known 
So  with  the  interna]  mind  it  fares  ;  and  so 
With  morals,  trusting,  in  contempt  or  fear 
Of  vital  principle's  controlling  law. 
To  her  purbHnd  guide.  Expediency  ;  and  so 
Suffers  religious  faith.     Elate  with  view 


202  rOEJ[S    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Of  what  is  won,  we  overlook  or  scorn 

The  best  that  should  keep  pace  with  it,  and  must, 

Else  more  and  more  the  general  mind  will  droop, 

Even  as  if  bent  on  perishing.     There  lives 

No  faculty  within  us  which  the  Soul 

Can  spare,  and  humblest  earthly  Weal  demands, 

For  dignity  not  placed  beyond  her  reach, 

Zealous  cooperation  of  all  means 

Given  or  acquired,  to  raise  us  from  the  mire, 

And  liberate  our  hearts  from  low  pursuits. 

By  gross  Utilities  enslaved,  we  need 

More  of  ennobling  impulse  from  the  past, 

If  to  the  future  aught  of  good  must  come 

Sounder  and  therefore  holier  than  the  ends 

Which,  in  the  giddiness  of  self-applause, 

We  covet  as  supreme.     0  grant  the  crown 

That  Wisdom  wears,  or  take  his  treacherous  staflF 

From  Knowledge  !  —  If  the  Muse,  whom  I  have 

served 
This  day,  be  mistress  of  a  single  pearl 
Fit  to  be  piaced  in  that  pure  diadem. 
Then  not  in  vain,  under  these  chestnut-boughs 
Reclined,  shall  I  have  yielded  up  my  soul 
To  transports  from  the  secondary  founts 
Flowing  of  time  and  place,  and  paid  to  both 
Due  homage  ;  nor  shall  fruitlessly  have  striven, 
By  love  of  beauty  moved,  to  enshrine  in  verse 
Accordant  meditations,  which  in  times 
Vexed  and  disordered,  as  our  own,  may  shed 
(.afluence,  at  least  among  a  scattered  tew, 


SONNETS.  203 

To  soberness  of  mind  and  peace  of  heart 
Friendly  ;  as  here  to  my  repose  hath  been 
This  flowering  broom's  dear  neighborhood,  the  light 
And  murmur  issuing  from  yon  pendent  flood, 
And  all  the  varied  landscape.     Let  us  now 
Rise,  and  to-morrow  greet  magnificent  Rome.* 


n. 

THE  PINE  OP  MONTE  MABIO  AT  ROME. 

I  SAW  far  off  the  dark  top  of  a  Pine 
Look  like  a  cloud,  —  a  slender  stem  the  tie 
That  bound  it  to  its  native  earth,  —  poised  high 
'Mid  evening  hues,  along  the  horizon  line, 
Striving  in  peace  each  other  to  outshine. 
But  when  I  learned  the  Tree  was  living  there. 
Saved  from  the  sordid  axe  by  Beaumont's  care, 
0  what  a  gush  of  tenderness  was  mine  ! 
The  rescued  Pine-tree,  with  its  sky  so  bright 
And  cloud-like  beauty,  rich  in  thoughts  of  home, 
Death-parted  friends,  and  days'  too  swift  in  flight, 
Supplanted  the  whole  majesty  of  Rome 
(Then  first  apparent  from  the  Pincian  Height) 
Crowned  with  St.  Peter's  everlasting  Dome.t 

*  See  Note.  t  See  Note, 


1804  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGIXATION 


in. 

AT   EOME. 

Is  this,  ye  Gods,  the  CapitoHan  Hill  ? 
Yon  petty  Steep  in  truth  the  fearful  Rock, 
Tarpeian  named  of  yore,  and  keeping  still 
That  name,  a  local  Phantom  proud  to  mock 
The  Traveller's  expectation  ?  —  Could  our  Will 
Destroy  the  ideal  Power  within,  't  were  done 
Through  what  men  see  and  touch,  —  slaves  wan- 
dering on. 
Impelled  by  thirst  of  all  but  Heaven-taught  skill. 
Full  oft,  our  wish  obtained,  deeply  we  sigh  ; 
Yet  not  unrecompensed  are  they  who  learn, 
From  that  depression  raised,  to  mount  on  high 
With  stronger  wing,  more  clearly  to  discern 
Eternal  things  ;  and,  if  need  be,  defy 
Change,  with  a  brow  not  insolent,  though  stern. 


IV. 


AT   ROME.  —  REGRETS.  —  IN  ALT>US10N  TO   NIEBUHR   AHB 
OTHEIl  MODERN   HISTORIANS. 

Those  old  credulities,  to  nature  dear, 
Shall  they  no  longer  bloom  upon  the  stock 
Of  History,  stripped  naked  as  a  rock 
'Mid  a  dry  desert  ?     What  is  it  we  hear  ? 
The  glory  of  Infant  Rome  must  disappear, 


60XNETS.  20U 

Her  nioriimg  splendors  vanish,  and  their  place 
Kno  vv  them  no  more.    If  Truth,  who  veiled  her  face 
With  those  briglit  beams,  yet  hid  it  not,  must  steer 
Henceforth  a  humbler  course  perplexed  and  slow, 
One  solace  yet  remains  for  us  who  came 
Lito  this  world  in  days  when  story  lacked 
Severe  research,  that  in  our  hearts  we  know 
How,  for  exciting  youth's  heroic  flame. 
Assent  is  power,  belief  the  soul  of  fact. 


V. 

CONTINTJED. 

Complacent  Fictions  were  they,  yet  the  same 
Involved  a  history  of  no  doubtful  sense. 
History  that  proves  by  inward  evidence 
From  what  a  precious  source  of  truth  it  came. 
Ne'er  could  the  boldest  Eulogist  have  dared 
Such  deeds  to  paint,  such  characters  to  frame, 
But  for  coeval  sympathy  prepared 
To  greet  with  instant  faith  their  loftiest  claim. 
None  but  a  noble  people  could  have  loved 
Flattery  in  Ancient  Rome's  pure-minded  style  .* 
Not  in  like  sort  the  Runic  Scald  was  moved  ; 
He,  nursed  'mid  savage  passions  that  defile 
Humanity,  sang  feats  that  well  might  call 
For  the  bloodtliirsty  mead  of  Odin's  riotous  Hall. 


206  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 


VI. 

PLEA   FOR  THE  HISTORIAN. 

Forbear  tc  deem  the  Chronicler  unwise, 

Ungentle,  or  untouched  bj  seemly  ruth, 

Who,  gathering  up  all  that  Time's  envious  tooth 

Has  spared  of  sound  and  grave  realities, 

Firmly  rejects  those  dazzling  flatteries, 

Dear  as  they  are  to  unsuspecting  Youth, 

That  might  have  drawn  down  Clio  from  the  skies 

To  vindicate  the  majesty  of  truth. 

Such  was  her  office  Avhile  she  walked  with  men, 

A  Muse,  who,  not  unmindful  of  her  Sire, 

All-ruling  Jove,  whate'er  the  theme  might  be, 

Revered  her  Mother,  sage  Mnemosyne, 

And  taught  her  faithful  servants  how  the  lyre 

Should  animate,  but  not  mislead,  the  pen.* 


VII. 

AT   ROME. 

They  who  have  seen  the  noble  Roman's  scorn 
Break  forth  at  thought  of  laying  down  his  head, 
When  the  blank  day  is  over,  garreted 
In  his  ancestral  i)alace,  where,  from  morn 
To  night,  the  desecrated  floors  are  worn 

*  Quein  viI^lm  ....  lyra  .... 
....  sumes  celebrare  Clio? 


SONNETS.  2U7 

By  feet  of  purse-proud  strangers;  they  wlio  have 

read 
In  one  meek  smile,  beneath  a  peasant's  shed, 
How  patiently  the  weight  of  wrong  is  borne  ; 
They  who  have  heard  some  learned  Patriot  treat 
Of  freedom,  with  mind  grasping  the  whole  theme, 
From   ancient   Rome,   downwards    through    that 

bright  dream 
Of  Commonwealths,  each  city  a  starlike  seat 
Of  rival  glory  ;  —  they,  fallen  Italy, 
Nor  must,  nor  will,  nor  can,  despair  of  Thee ! 


VIII. 

NEAR  ROME,   IN    SIGHT  OF   ST.   PETER'S. 

Long  has  the  dew  been  dried  on  tree  and  lawn ; 
O'er  man  and  beast  a  not  unwelcome  boon 
Is  shed,  the  languor  of  approaching  noon  ; 
To  shady  rest  withdrawing  or  withdrawn, 
Mute  are  all  creatures,  as  this  couchant  fawn, 
Save  insect-swarms  that  hum  in  air  afloat, 
Save  that  the  Cock  is  crowing,  a  shrill  note. 
Startling  and  shrill  as  that  which  roused  the  duwn. 
—  Heard  in  that  hour,  or  when,  as  now,  the  nerve 
Shrinks  from  the  note  as  from  a  mistimed  thing. 
Oft  for  a  holy  warning  may  it  serve. 
Charged  with  remembrance  of  his  sudden  sfing 
His  bitter  tears,  whose  name  the  Papal  Chair 
A.nd  yon  resplondent  Church  are  proud  to  bear 


208  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


IX. 

AT   ALBANO. 

Days  passed,  —  and  Monte  Calvo  would  not  clear 

His  head  from  mist;  and,  as  the  wind  sobbed  through 

Albano's  dripping  Ilex  avenue, 

My  dull  forebodings  in  a  Peasant's  ear 

Found  casual  vent.    She  said,  "  Be  of  good  cheer ; 

Our  yesterday's  procession  did  not  sue 

In  vain ;  the  sky  will  change  to  sunny  blue, 

Th<?.nks  to  our  Lady's  grace."     I  smiled  to  hear, 

But  not  in  scorn :  —  the  Matron's  Faith  may  lack 

The  heavenly  sanction  needed  to  insure 

Fulfilment ;  but,  we  trust,  her  upward  track 

Stops  not  at  this  low  point,  nor  wants  the  lure 

Of  flowei's  the  Virgin  without  fear  may  own. 

For  by  her  Son's  blest  hand  the  seed  was  sown. 


X. 


Near  Anio's  stream,  I  spied  a  gentle  Dove 
Perched  on  an  olive  branch,  and  heard  her  cooing 
']Mid  new-born  blossoms  that  soft  airs  were  wooing, 
While  all  things  present  told  of  joy  and  love. 
But  restless  Fancy  left  that  olive  grove 
To  hail  the  exploratory  Bird  renewing 
Mope  for  the  few,  who,  at  the  world's  undoing, 
On  the  great  flood  were  spared  to  live  and  move. 


SONNETS.  20*J 

0  bounteous  Heaven !  si^rns  true  as  dove  and  bough 

Brought  to  the  ark  are  coming  evermore, 

Given  though  we  seek  them  not,  but,  while  we  plough 

This  sea  of  life  without  a  visible  shore, 

Do  neither  promise  ask  nor  grace  implore 

In  what  alone  is  ours,  the  living  Now. 


XI. 

FROM   THE  ALBAN    HILLS,    LOOKING    TOWARDS   ROME. 

Forgive,  illustrious  Country  !  these  deep  sighs, 

Heaved  less  for  thy  bright  plains  and  hills  bestrown 

With  monuments  decayed  or  overthrown. 

For  all  that  tottering  stands  or  prostrate  lies, 

Than  for  like  scenes  in  moral  vision  sIioanti, 

Ruin  perceived  for  keener  sympathies  ; 

Faith  crushed,  yet  pi  oud  of  weeds,  her  gaudy  crown ; 

Virtues  laid  low,  and  mouldering  energies. 

Yet  why  prolong  this  mournful  strain  ?  —  Fallen 

Power, 
Thy  fortunes,  twice  exalted,  might  provoke 
Verse  to  glad  notes  prophetic  of  the  hour 
When  thou,  uprisen,  shalt  break  thy  double  yoke, 
And  enter,  with  prompt  aid  from  the  Most  High, 
On  the  third  stage  of  thy  great  destiny. 


VOL.  m.  14 


210  rOEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XII. 

NEAR  THE    LAKE   OF  THRASYMENE. 

When  here  with  Carthage  Rome  to  conflict  came, 
An  earthquake,  minghng  witli  the  battle's  shock, 
Checked  not  its  rage  ;  unfelt  the  ground  did  rock. 
Sword  dropped  not,  javelin  kept  its  deadly  aim.  — 
Now  all  is  sun-bright  peace.    Of  that  day's  shame, 
Or  glory,  not  a  vestige  seems  to  endure, 
Save  in  this  Rill  that  took  from  blood  the  name  * 
Which  yet  it  bears,  sweet  Stream !  as  crystal  pure. 
So  may  all  trace  and  sign  of  deeds  aloof 
From  the  true  guidance  of  humanity. 
Through  Time  and  Nature's  influence,  purify 
Their  spirit ;  or,  unless  they  for  reproof 
Or  warning  serve,  thus  let  them  ail,  on  ground 
That  gave  them  being,  vanish  to  a  sound. 

XIII. 

NEAR  THE  SAME   LAKE. 

For  action  born,  existing  to  be  tried, 
Poweis  manifold  we  have  that  intervene 
To  stir  the  heart  that  would  too  closely  screen 
Her  peace  from  images  to  pain  allied. 
What  wonder  if  at  midnight,  bj'  the  bide 

*  Sanguinetto. 


THE  CUCKOO  AT  LAVERNA.       211 

Of  Sanguinetto  or  broad  Thrasymene, 

The  clang  of  arms  is  heard,  and  phantoms  glide, 

Unhappy  ghosts  in  troops  by  moonlight  seen  ; 

And  singly  thine,  O  vanquished  chief!  whose  corse, 

Unburied,  lay  hid  under  heaps  of  slain  ? 

But  who  is  he  ?  —  the  Conqueror.     Would  he  force 

His  way  to  Rome?     Ah,  no!  round  hill  and  plain 

Wandering,  he  haunts,  at  fancy's  strong  command, 

This  spot,  —  his  shadowy  death-cup  in  his  hand. 


XIV. 

THE   CUCKOO   AT   LAVERNA. 
MAY  25th,  1837. 

List! — 't  was  the  Cuckoo.  —  0,  with  what  delight 
Heard  I  that  voice  !  and  catch  it  now,  though  faint, 
Far  off  and  faint,  and  melting  into  air, 
Yet  not  to  be  mistaken.     Hark  again  ! 
Those  louder  cries  give  notice  that  the  Bird, 
Although  invisible  as  Echo's  self. 
Is  wheeling  hitherward.    Thanks,  happy  Creature, 
For  this  unthought-of  greeting ! 

WJiile  allured 
From  vale  to  hill,  from  hill  to  vale  led  on, 
We  have  pursued,  through  various  lands,  a  long 
And  pleasant  coui-se ;  flower  after  flower  has  blown, 
Embellishing  the  ground  that  gave  them  birth 


212  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

With  aspects  novel  to  mj  sight ;  but  still 

Most  fair,  most  welcome,  when  they  drank  the  clew 

In  a  sweet  fellowship  with  kinds  beloved, 

For  old  remembrance'  sake.     And  oft,  —  where 

Spring 
Displayed  her  richest  blossoms  among  files 
Of  Orange-trees  bedecked  with  glowing  fruit 
Ripe  for  the  hand,  or  under  a  thick  shade 
Of  Ilex,  or,  if  better  suited  to  the  hour, 
The  lightsome  Olive's  twinkhng  canopy,  — 
Oft  have  I  heard  the  Ni^rhtino-ale  and  Thrush 
Blending  as  in  a  common  Eno;lish  grove 
Their  love-songs ;  but,  where'er  my  feet  might  roam, 
Whate'er  assemblages  of  new  and  old. 
Strange  and  familiar,  might  beguile  the  way, 
A  gratulation  from  that  vagrant  Voice 
Was  wanting  ;  —  and  most  happily  till  now. 

For  see,  Laverna  !  mark  the  far-famed  Pile, 
High  on  the  brink  of  that  precipitous  rock. 
Implanted  like  a  Fortress,  as  in  truth 
It  is,  a  Christian  Fortress,  garrisoned 
In  faith  and  hope,  and  dutiful  obedience. 
By  a  few  Monks,  a  stern  society. 
Dead  to  the  world  and  scorning  earth-born  joys. 
Nay,  —  though  the  hopes  that  drew,  the  fears  that 

drove, 
St.  Francis,  far  from  Man's  resort,  to  abide 
Among  these  sterile  heights  of  Apennine, 
Bound  him,  nor,  since  he  raised  yon  House,  have 

ceased 


THE    CUCKOO    AT    LAVERNA.  213 

To  bind  his  spiritual  progeny  with  rules 
Stringent  as  flesh  can  tolerate  and  live,  — 
His  milder  Genius  (thanks  to  the  good  God 
That  made  us)  over  those  severe  restraints 
Of  mind,  that  dread,  heart-freezing  discipline, 
Doth  sometimes  here  predominate,  and  works 
By  unsought  means  for  gracious  purposes  ; 
For  earth  through  heaven,  for  heaven,  by  change- 
ful earth 
Illustrated,  and  mutually  endeared. 

Rapt  though   he   were   above   the   power   of 
sense, 
FamiUarly,  yet  out  of  the  cleansed  heart 
Of  that  once  sinful  Being  overflowed 
On  sun,  moon,  stars,  the  nether  elements. 
And  every  shape  of  creature  they  sustain. 
Divine  affections  ;  and  with  beast  and  bird 
(Stilled  from  afar  —  such  marvel  story  tells  — 
By  casual  outbreak  of  his  passionate  words. 
And  from  their  own  pursuits  in  field  or  grove 
Drawn  to  his  side  by  look  or  act  of  love 
Humane,  and  virtue  of  his  innocent  life) 
He  wont  to  hold  companionship  so  free, 
So  pure,  so  fraught  with  knowledge  and  delight, 
As  to  be  likened  in  his  Followers'  minds 
To  that  which  our  first  Parents,  ere  the  fall 
From  their  high  state  darkened  the   Earth  with 

fear, 
Held  with  all  Kinds  in  Eden's  blissful  bowers. 


■<il4  rOEJIS    OF    THE    IMAGINATIOX. 

Then  question  not  that,  'mid  the  austere  Band 
Who  breathe  the  air  he  breathed,  tread  where  he 

trod, 
Soine  true  partakers  of  his  loving  spirit 
Do  still  survive,  and,  w^ith  those  gentle  hearts 
Consorted,  others,  in  the  power,  the  faith, 
Of  a  baptized  imagination,  prompt 
To  catch  from  Nature's  humblest  monitors 
Whate'er  they  bring  of  impulses  sublime- 
Thus  sensitive  must  be  the  Monk,  though  pale 
With  fasts,  with  vigils  worn,  depressed  by  years, 
Whom  in  a  sunny  glade  I  chanced  to  see, 
Upon  a  pine-tree's  storm-uprooted  trunk. 
Seated  alone,  with  forehead  skyward  raised, 
Hands  clasped  above  the  crucifix  he  wore 
Appended  to  his  bosom,  and  lips  closed 
By  the  joint  pressure  of  his  musing  mood 
And  habit  of  his  vow.     That  ancient  Man,  — 
Nor  haply  less  the  Brother  whom  I  marked, 
As  we  approached  the  Convent  gate,  aloft 
Looking  far  forth  from  his  aerial  cell, 
A  young  Ascetic,  —  Poet,  Hero,  Sage, 
He  might  have  been.  Lover  belike  he  was,  — 
If  they  received  into  a  conscious  ear 
The  notes  whose  first  faint  greeting  startled  me. 
Whose  sedulous  iteration  thrilled  with  joy 
My  heart,  may  have    been    moved    like    me    tc 

think, 
Ah !  not  like  me  who  walk  in  the  world's  ways, 


SONNETS.  215 

On  the  great  Prophet,  styled  the  Voice  of  One 

Crying  amid  the  loilderness,  and  given, 

Now  that  theii-  snows  must  melt,  their  herbs  and 

flowers 
Revive,  their  obstinate  winter  pass  away, 
That  awful  name  to  thee,  thee,  simple  Cuckoo, 
Wandering  in  solitude,  and  evermore 
Foi'etelling  and  proclaiming,  ere  thou  leave 
This  thy  last  haunt  beneath  Italian  skies 
To  carry  thy  glad  tidings  over  heights 
Still  loftier,  and  to  climes  more  near  the  Pole. 

Voice  of  the  desert,  fare  thee  well;  sweet  Bird! 
If  that  substantial  title  please  thee  more. 
Farewell !  —  but  go  thy  way ;  no  need  hast  thou 
Of  a  good  wish  sent  after  thee  ;  from  bower 
To  bower  as  green,  from  sky  to  sky  as  clear, 
Thee  gentle  breezes  waft,  —  or  airs  that  meet 
Thy  course  and  sport  around  thee  softly  fan,  — 
Till  Night,  descending  upon  hill  and  vale, 
Grants  to  thy  mission  a  brief  term  of  silence, 
And  folds  thy  pinions  up  in  blest  repose. 


XV. 

AT  THE   CONVEINT   OF   CAMALDOLI. 

Grieve  for  the  Man  who  hither  came  bereft, 
And  seeking  consolation  from  above  ; 


216  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Nor  grieve  the  less  that  skill  to  liim  was  left 

To  paint  this  picture  of  his  lady-love : 

Can  she,  a  blessed  saint,  the  work  approve  ? 

And  O  good  Brethren  of  the  cowl!  a  thing 

So  fair,  to  which  with  peril  he  must  cling, 

Destroy  in  pity,  or  with  care  remove. 

That  bloom, —  those  eyes, —  can  they  assist  to 

bind 
Thoughts  that  would  stray  from  Heaven  ?     The 

dream  must  cease 
To  be ;  by  Faith,  not  sight,  his  soul  must  live ; 
Else  will  the  enamored  Monk  too  surely  find 
How  wide  a  space  can  part  from  inward  peace 
The  most  profound  repose  his  cell  can  give. 


XVI. 

CONTINUED. 

The  world  forsaken,  all  its  busy  cares 

And  stirring  interests  shunned  with  desperate  flight, 

All  trust  abandoned  in  the  healinaj  mi^ht 

Of  virtuous  action,  —  all  that  courage  dares, 

Labor  accomplishes,  or  patience  bears, — 

Those  helps  rejected,  they  whose  minds  perceive 

How   subtly   works   man's  weakness,  sighs  may 

heave 
For  such  a  one  beset  with  cloistral  snares. 
Father  of  Mercy  !  rectify  his  view, 
If  with  his  vows  this  object  ill  agree  ; 


SONNETS.  217 

Shed  over  it  thy  grace,  and  thus  subdue 
Imperious  passion  in  a  heart  set  free  :  — 
That  earthly  love  may  to  herself  be  true, 
Give  him  a  soul  that  cleaveth  unto  thee.* 


XVII. 

AT  THE   EREMITE   OR   UPPER   CONVENT   OF    CAMALDOLl. 

What  aim  had  they,  the  pair  of  Monks,  in  size 
Enormous,  dragged,  while  side  by  side  they  sat, 
By  panting  steers  up  to  this  convent  gate  ? 
How,  with  empurpled  cheeks  and  pampered  eyeS; 
Dare  they  confront  the  lean  austerities 
Of  Brethren  who,  here  fixed,  on  Jesu  wait 
In  sackcloth,  and  God's  anger  deprecate 
Through  all  that  humbles  flesh  and  mortifies  ? 
Strange  contrast !  —  verily  the  world  of  dreams, 
Where  mingle,  as  for  mockery  combined. 
Things  in  their  very  essences  at  strife. 
Shows  not  a  sight  incongruous  as  the  extremes 
That  everywhere,  before  the  thoughtful  mind, 
Meet  on  the  solid  ground  of  waking  life.* 

#  See  Note 


218  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGmATION. 

XVIII. 

AT    VALLOMBROSA. 

Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa,  where  Etrurian  shades 
High  over-arched  embower.* 

Paradise  Lost. 

"  Vallombrosa,  —  I  longed  in  thy  shadiest  wood 
To  shimber,  reclined  on  the  moss-covered  floor  !  " 
Fond  wish  that  was  granted  at  last,  and  the  Flood, 
That  lulled  me  asleep,  bids  me  listen  once  more. 
Its  murmur  how  soft !  as  it  falls  down  the  steep, 
Near  that  Cell  —  yon  sequestered  Retreat  high 

in  air  — 
Where  our  Milton  was  wont  lonely  vigils  to  keep 
For  converse  with  God,  sought  through  study  and 

prayer. 

The  Monks  still  repeat  the  tradition  with  pride. 
And  its  truth  who  shall  doubt  ?  for  his  Spirit  is 

here  ; 
In  the  cloud-piercing  rocks  doth  her  grandeur  abide, 
In  the    pines    pointing   heavenward    her    beauty 

austere  ; 
In  the  flower-besprent  meadows  his  genius  we  trace 
Turned  to  humbler  delights,  in  which  youth  might 

confide, 

*  See  f  )r  the  two  first  lines,  "  Stanzas  composed  in  thi- 
Bimploii  Pass." 


AT    VALLOMBROSA.  219 

That  would  yield  him  fit  help  while  prefiguring 

that  Place 
Where,  if  Sin  had  not  entered,  Love  never  had 

died. 

When  with  life  lengthened  out  came  a  desolate 

time, 
And  darkness  and  danger  had  compassed  him  round, 
With  a  thought  he  would  flee  to  these  haunts  of 

his  prime, 
And  hei'e  once  again  a  kind  shelter  be  found. 
And  let  me  believe  that  when  nightly  the  Muse 
Did  waft  him  to  Sion,  the  glorified  hill. 
Here  also,  on  some  favored  height,  he  would  choose 
To  wander,  and  di-ink  inspiration  at  will. 

Vallombrosa  !  of  thee  I  first  heard  in  the  page 
Of  that  holiest  of  Bards,  and  the  name  for  mv  mind 
Had  a  musical  charm,  which  the  winter  of  age 
And  the  changes  it  bi'iugs  had  no  power  to  unbind. 
And  now,  ye  Miltonian  shades  !  under  you 
I  repose,  nor  am  forced  from  sweet  fancy  to  part, 
While  your  leaves  I  behold  and  the  brooks  they 

will  strew, 
And  the  realized  vision  is  clasped  to  my  heart. 

Even  so,  and  unblamed,  we  rejoice  as  we  may 
In  Forms  that  must  perish,  frail  objects  of  sense : 
Unblamed,  if  the  Soul  be  intent  on  the  day 
When  the  Bemorof  Beinojs  shall  summon  her  hence 


220  POEMS    OF    THE    IMACIXATIOX. 

For  he  and  he  only  with  wisdom  is  blest 

Who,  gathering  true  pleasures  wherever  they  gro\?, 

Looks  up  in  all  places,  for  joy  or  for  rest, 

To  the  Fountain  whence  Time  and  Eternity  flow. 


XIX. 

AT   FLORENCE. 


Under  the  shadow  of  a  stately  Pile, 

The  Dome  of  Florence,  pensive  and  alone, 

Nor  giving  heed  to  aught  that  passed  the  while, 

I  stood,  and  gazed  upon  a  marble  stone. 

The  laurelled  Dante's  favorite  seat.     A  throne, 

In  just  esteem,  it  rivals  ;  though  no  style 

Be  there  of  decoration  to  beguile 

The  mind,  depressed  by  thought  of  greatness  flowa 

As  a  true  man,  who  long  had  served  the  lyre, 

I  gazed  with  earnestness,  and  dared  no  more. 

But  in  his  breast  the  mighty  Poet  bore 

A  Patriot's  heart,  warm  with  undying  fire. 

Bold  with  the  thought,  in  reverence  I  sat  down, 

And,  for  a  moment,  filled  that  empty  Throne. 


XX. 


BEFORE  THE  PICTURE  OF  THE   BAPTIST,    BY    RAPHAEL,   IS 
THE   GALLERY  AT    FLORENCK. 

The  Baptist  might  have  been  ordained  to  cry 
Forth  from  the  towers  of  that  huge  Pile,  wherein 


SONNETS.  221 

His  father  served  Jehovah  ;  but  how  win 
Due  audience,  how  for  aught  but  scorn  defy 
The  obstinate  pi-ide  and  wanton  revelry 
Of  the  Jerusalem  below,  her  sin 
And  folly,  if  they  with  united  din 
Drown  not  at  once  mandate  and  prophecy  ? 
Therefore  the  Voice  spake  from  the  Desert,  thence 
To  her,  as  to  her  opposite  in  peace, 
Silence,  and  holiness,  and  innocence, 
To  her  and  to  all  lands  its  warning  sent, 
Crying  with  earnestness  that  might  not  cease, 
"  Make  straight  a  highway  for  the  Lord,  —  repent ! " 

XXI. 

AT  FLORENCE.  —  FROM  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Rapt  above  earth  by  power  of  one  fair  face. 
Hers  in  whose  sway  alone  my  heart  delights, 
I  mingle  with  the  blest  on  those  pure  heights 
Where  Man,  yet  mortal,  rarely  finds  a  place. 
With  Him  who  made  the  Work  that  Work  accords 
So  well,  that  by  its  help  and  through  his  grace 
I  raise  my  thoughts,  inform  my  deeds  and  words. 
Clasping  her  beauty  in  my  soul's  embrace. 
Tlius,  if  from  two  fair  eyes  mine  cannot  turn. 
I  feel  how  in  their  presence  doth  abide 
Light  which  to  God  is  both  the  way  and  guide , 
And,  kindling  at  their  lustre,  if  I  burn. 
My  noble  fire  emits  the  joyful  ray 
That  through  the  realms  of  glory  shines  for  aye. 


122-  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION 

XXII. 

AT   FLOKENCE.  —  FROM   MICHAEL  ANGBIiO. 

Eternal  Lord !  eased  of  a  cumbrous  load, 
And  loosened  from  the  world,  I  turn  to  thee ; 
Shun,  like  a  shattered  bark,  the  storm,  and  flee 
To  thy  protection  for  a  safe  abode. 
The  crown  of  thorns,  hands  pierced  upon  the  tree, 
The  meek,  benign,  and  lacerated  face, 
To  a  sincere  repentance  promise  grace, 
To  the  sad  soul  give  hope  of  pardon  free. 
With  justice  mark  not  Thou,  O  Light  divine, 
My  fault,  nor  hear  it  with  thy  sacred  ear ; 
Neither  put  forth  that  way  thy  arm  severe  ; 
Wash  with  thy  blood  my  sins  ;  thereto  incline 
More  readily  the  more  my  years  require 
Help,  and  forgiveness  speedy  and  entire. 


XXIII. 

AMONG   THE    RUINS    OF    A    CONVENT    IN 
THE  APENNINES. 

Ye  Trees  !  whose  slender  roots  entwine 

Altars  that  piety  neglects  ; 
Whose  infant  arms  enclasp  the  shrine 

Which  no  devotion  now  respects  ; 


SONNETS.  223 

l£  not  a  straggler  from  the  herd 
Here  ruminate,  nor  shrouded  bird, 
Chanting  her  low-voiced  hymn,  take  pride 
In  aught  that  ye  would  grace  or  hide,  — 
How  sadly  is  your  love  misplaced, 
Fair  Trees,  your  bounty  run  to  waste ! 
Ye,  too,  wild  Flowers  !  that  no  one  heeds, 
And  ye  —  full  often  spurned  as  weeds,  — 
In  beauty  clothed,  or  breathing  sweetness 
From  fractured  arch  and  mouldering  wall  — 
Do  but  more  touchingly  recall 
Man's  headstrong  violence  and  Time's  fleetnesu. 
Making  the  precincts  ye  adorn 
Appear  to  sight  still  more  forlorn. 


XXIV. 
IN  LOMBARDY. 


See,  where  his  difficult  way  that  Old  Man  wins, 
Bent  by  a  load  of  Mulberry  leaves  !  —  most  hard 
Appears  his  lot,  to  the  small  Worm's  compared, 
For  whom  his  toil  with  early  day  begins. 
Acknowledging  no  task-master,  at  will 
(As  if  her  labor  and  her  ease  were  twins) 
She  seems  to  work,  at  pleasure  to  lie  still ;  — 
And  softly  sleeps  within  the  thread  she  spins. 
So  fare  they,  —  the  Man  serving  as  her  Slave. 
Erelong  their  fates  do  each  to  each  conform  : 


224  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Both  pass  into  new  being ;  —  but  the  Worm, 
Transfigured,  sinks  into  a  hopeless  grave  ; 
His  volant  Spirit  will,  he  trusts,  ascend 
To  bliss  unbounded,  glory  without  end. 

XXV. 

AFTER  LEAVING   ITALY. 

Fair  Land  !     Thee  all  men  greet  with  joy  ;  how 

few. 
Whose  souls  take  pride  in  freedom,  virtue,  fame, 
Part  from  thee  without  pity  dyed  in  shame  : 
I  could  not,  —  while  from  Venice  we  withdrew, 
Led  on  till  an  Alpine  strait  confined  our  view 
Within  its  depths,  and  to  the  shoi'e  we  came 
Of  Lago  Morto,  dreary  sight  and  name, 
Which  o'er  sad  thoughts  a  sadder  coloring  threw. 
Italia  !  on  the  surface  of  thy  spirit, 
(Too  aptly  emblemed  by  that  torpid  lake,) 
Shall  a  few  partial  breezes  only  creep  ?  — 
Be  its  depths  quickened  ;  what  thou  dost  inherit 
Of  the  world's  hopes,  dare  to  fulfil ;  awake, 
l\Iother  of  Heroes,  from  thy  death-like  sleep ! 

XXVI. 

CONTINUED. 

As  indignation  mastered  grief,  my  tongue 
Spake  bitter  words ;  woi'ds  that  did  ill  agree 
With  those  rich  stores  of  Nature's  imagery, 


SONNETS.  225 

And  divine  Art,  that  fast  to  memory  clung,  — 
Thy  gifts,  magniti  eat  Region,  ever  young 
In  the  sun's  eye,  and  in  his  sister's  sight 
How  beautiful !  how  worthy  to  be  sung 
In  strains  of  rapture,  or  subdued  delight ! 
I  feign  not;  witness  that  unwelcome  shock 
That  followed  the  first  sound  of  German  speech, 
Caught  the  far-winding  barrier  Alps  among. 
In  that  announcement,  greeting  seemed  to  mock 
Parting ;  the  casual  word  had  power  to  I'each 
My  heart,  and  tilled  that  heart  with  conflict  strong. 

XXVII. 

COMPOSED   AT   RYDAL   ON   MAY   JIORNIXG,    1838. 

If  with  old  love  of  you,  dear  Hills  !  I  share 

New  love  of  many  a  rival  image  brought 

From  far,  forgive  the  wanderings  of  my  thought : 

Nor  art  thou  wronged,  sweet  May  !  when  I  compare 

Thy  present  birth-morn  with  thy  last,  so  fair, 

bo  rich  to  me  in  favors.     For  my  lot 

Then  was,  within  the  famed  Egerian  Grot 

To  sit  and  muse,  fanned  by  its  dewy  air 

Mingling  with  thy  soft  breath  !     That  morning,  t<x>. 

Warblers  I  heard  their  joy  unbosoming 

Amid  the  sunny,  shadowy  Coliseum  ; 

Heard  them,  unchecked  by  aught  of  saddening  hue, 

^^or  victories  there  won  by  flower-crowned  Spring, 

Chant  in  full  choir  their  innocent  Te  Deum. 

VOL.     111.  15 


226  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XXVIII. 
THE  PILLAR   OF  TRAJAN. 

Wheke  towers  are  ci'ushed,  and  unforbidden  weeds 

O'er  mutilated  arches  shed  their  seeds  : 

And  temples,  doomed  to  milder  change,  unfold 

A  new  magnificence  that  vies  with  old ; 

Firm  in  its  pristine  majesty  hath  stood 

A  votive  Column,  spared  by  tire  and  Hood  :  — 

And,  though  the  passions  of  man's  fretful  race 

Have  never  ceased  to  eddy  round  its  base, 

Not  injured  more  by  touch  of  meddling  hands 

Than  a  lone  obelisk,  'mid  Nubian  sands, 

Or  aught  in  Syrian  deserts  left  to  save 

From  death  the  memory  of  the  good  and  brave. 

Historic  figures  round  the  shaft  embost 

Ascend,  with  lineaments  in  air  not  lost : 

IStiU  as  he  turns,  the  charmed  spectator  sees 

Group  winding  after  group,  with  dream-like  ease ; 

Triumphs  in  sun-bright  gratitude  displayed. 

Or  softly  stealing  into  modest  shade. 

—  So,  pleased  with  purple  clustex's  to  entwine 

home  lofty  elm-tree,  mounts  the  daring  vine  ; 

The  woodbine  so,  with  spiral  grace,  and  breathes 

Wide-spreading  odors  from  her  flowery  wreaths. 

Borne  by  the  Muse  from  rills  in  shepherds'  eara 
Murmuring  but  one  smooth  story  for  all  years, 
J  gladly  commune  with  the  mind  and  heart 


THE    PILLAR    OF    TEAJAN.  227 

Of  liini  who  thus  survives  by  classic  art, 

His  actions  witness,  venerate  his  mien, 

And  study  Trajan  as  by  Pliny  seen  ; 

Behold  how  fought  the  Chief  whose  conquering 

sword 
Stretched  far  as  earth  mio-ht  own  a  single  lord ; 
In  the  delight  of  moral  prudence  schooled, 
How  feelingly  at  home  the  sovereign  ruled ; 
Best  of  the  good,  —  in  pagan  faith  allied 
To  more  than  Man,  by  virtue  deified. 

Memorial  Pillar  !  'mid  the  wrecks  of  Time 
Preserve  thy  charge  with  confidence  sublime,  — 
The  exultations,  pomps,  and  cares  of  Rome, 
Whence  half  the  breathing  world  received  its  doom  ; 
Things  that  recoil  from  language  ;  that,  if  shown 
By  apter  pencil,  from  the  light  had  flown. 
A  Pontiff,  Trajan  here  the  Gods  implores, 
There  greets  an  Embassy  from  Indian  shores ; 
Lo  !  he  harangues  his  cohorts,  —  there  the  storm 
Of  battle  meets  him  in  authentic  form  ! 
Unharnessed,  naked  troops  of  Moorish  horse 
Sweep  to  the  charge  ;  more  high,  the  Dacian  force, 
To  hoof  and  finger  mailed  ;  —  yet,  high  or  low, 
None  bleed,  and  none  lie  prostrate  but  the  foe ; 
In  every  Roman,  through  all  turns  of  fate, 
Is  Roman  dignity  inviolate  ; 
Spirit  in  him  preeminent,  who  guides. 
Supports,  adorns,  and  over  all  presides  ; 
distinguished  only  by  inherent  state 


228  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION 

From  honored  Instruments  that  round  him  wait ; 

Rise  as  he  may,  his  grandeur  scorns  the  test 

Of  outward  symbol,  nor  will  deign  to  rest 

On  aught  by  which  another  is  deprest. 

—  Alas  !  that  One  thus  disciplined  could  toil 

To  enslave  whole  nations  on  their  native  soil ; 

So  emulous  of  Macedonian  fame, 

That,  when  his  age  was  measured  with  his  aim, 

He  drooped,  'mid  else  unclouded  victories, 

And  turned  his  eagles  back  with  deep-drawn  sighs. 

0  weakness  of  the  Great !  O  folly  of  the  wise  ! 

Where  now  the  haughty  Empire  that  was  spread 
With  such  fond  hope  ?  her  very  speech  is  dead  ; 
Yet  glorious  Art  the  power  of  Time  defies. 
And  Trajan  still,  through  various  enterprise, 
Mounts,  in  this  fine  illusion,  toward  the  skies  : 
Still  are  we  present  with  the  imperial  Chief, 
Nor  cease  to  gaze  upon  the  bold  Relief, 
Till  Rome,  to  silent  marble  unconfined, 
.becomes  with  all  her  years  a  vision  of  the  Mini! 


THE   EGYPTIAN    MAID: 

OR,   THE    ROMANCE  OF   THE   WATER-LHiY. 


[For  the  names  and  persons  in  the  following  poem,  see  the 
"  History  of  the  Renowned  Prince  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the 
Bound  Table  ";  for  the  rest,  the  Author  is  answerable;  only  it 
may  be  proper  to  add,  that  the  Lotus,  with  the  bust  of  the  God- 
dess appearing  to  rise  out  of  the  full-blown  flower,  was  sug- 
gested by  the  beautiful  work  of  ancient  art  once  included  among 
the  Townley  Marbles,  and  now  in  the  British  Museum.] 


While  Merlin  paced  the  Cornish  sands, 
Forth-looking  toward  the  rocks  of  Scilly, 
The  pleased  Enchanter  was  aware 
Of  a  bright  Ship  that  seemed  to  hang  in  air ; 
Yet  was  she  work  of  mortal  hands, 
A.nd  took  from  men  her  name,  —  The  Wati?r- 

LlLY. 

Soft  was  the  wind,  that  landward  blew  ; 
And,  as  the  Moon,  o'er  some  dark  hill  ascendant, 
Grows  from  a  little  edge  of  light 
To  a  full  orb,  this  Pinnace  bright 


230  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Became,  as  nearer  to  the  coast  she  drew, 
More  glorious,   with   spread  sail   and  streaming 
pendant. 

Upon  this  winged  Shape  so  fair 
Sage  Mei'lin  gazed  with  admiration  : 
Her  lineaments,  thought  he,  surpass 
Aught  that  was  ever  shown  in  magic  glass ; 
Was  ever  built  with  patient  care ; 
Or,  at  a  touch,  produced  by  happiest  transformation. 

Now,  though  a  Mechanist,  whose  skill 
Shames  the  degenerate  grasp  of  modern  science, 
Grave  Merlin  (and  belike  the  rpore 
For  practising  occult  and  perilous  lore) 
Was  subject  to  a  freakish  will 
That  sapped  good  thoughts,  or  scared  them  with 
defiance. 

Provoked  to  envious  spleen,  he  cast 
An  altered  look  upon  the  advancing  Stranger 
Whom  he  had  hailed  with  joy,  and  cried, 
"  My  Art  shall  help  to  tame  her  pride."  — 
Anon  the  breeze  became  a  blast, 
<knd  the  waves  rose,  and  sky  portended  danger. 

With  thrilling  word,  and  potent  sign 
Traced  on  the  beach,  his  work  the  Sorcerer  urges ; 
The  clouds  in  blacke'r  clouds  are  lost. 
Like  spiteful  Fiends  that  vanish,  crossed 


THE    EGYPTIAN    MAID.  231 

By  Fiends  of  aspect  more  malign  ; 
^nd   the   winds   roused    the    Deep    with    fiercer 


But  worthy  of  the  name  she  bore 
Was  this  Sea-flower,  this  buoyant  Galley ; 
Supreme  in  loveliness  and  grace 
Of  motion,  whether  in  the  embrace 
Of  trusty  anchorage,  or  scudding  o'er 
The  main  flood  roughened  into  hill  and  valley 

Behold,  how  wantonly  she  laves 
Her  sides,  the  Wizard's  craft  confounding ; 
Like  something  out  of  Ocean  sprung 
To  be  for  ever  fresh  and  voung. 
Breasts  the  sea-flashes,  and  huge  waves 
Top-gallant  high,  rebounding  and  rebounding  1 

But  Ocean  under  magic  heaves, 
And  cannot  spai'e  the  Thing  he  cherished : 
Ah  !  what  avails  that  she  was  fair, 
Luminous,  blithe,  and  debonair  ? 
The  storm  has  stripped  her  of  her  leaves ; 
The  Lily  floats  no  longer  !  —  She  hath  perished 

Grieve  for  her,  she  deserves  no  less  ; 
So  like,  yet  so  unlike,  a  living  Creature  ! 
No  heart  had  she,  no  busy  brain  ; 
Though  loved,  she  could  not  love  again  ; 
Though  pitied, yeeHier  own  distress; 
Nor  aught  that  troubles  us,  the  fools  of  Nature. 


232  POEMS    OF    THE    lilAGIKATlOX. 

Yet  is  there  cause  for  gushing  tears  ; 
So  richly  was  this  Galley  laden, 
A  fairer  than  herself  she  bore, 
And,  in  her  struggles,  cast  ashore  ; 
A  lovely  One,  who  nothing  hears 
Of  wind  or  wave,  —  a  meek  and  guileless  Maiden. 

Into  a  cave  had  Merlin  fled, 

From  mischief  caused  by  spells  himself  had 

muttered ; 
And  while,  repentant  all  too  late. 
In  moody  posture  there  he  sate, 
He  heard  a  voice,  and  saw,  with  half-raised 

head, 
A  Visitant  by  whom  these  words  were  uttered :  — 

"  On  Christian  service  this  frail  Bark 
Sailed,  (hear  me,  Merlin !)  under  high  protec- 
tion, 
Though  on  her  brow  a  sign  of  heathen  power 
Was  carved,  —  a  Goddess  with  a  Lily  flower, 
The  old  Egyptian's  emblematic  mark 
Of  joy  immortal  and  of  pure  affection. 

"  Her  course  was  for  the  British  strand  ; 
Her  freight,  it  was  a  Damsel  peerless  ; 
God  reigns  above,  and  Spirits  strong 
May  gather  to  avenge  this  wrong 
Done  to  the  Princess,  and  her  Land 
Which  she  in  duty  left,  sad  but  not  cheerless. 


THE    EGYPTIAN    MAIL*.  233 

♦'  And  to  Caerleon's  loftiest  tower 
Soon  will  the  Knights  of  Arthur's  Table 
A  cry  of  lamentation  send  ; 
And  all  will  weep  who  there  attend, 
To  grace  (hat  Stranger's  bridal  hour, 
For  whom  the  sea  was  made  unnavigable. 

"  Shame  !  should  a  Child  of  royal  line 
Die  through  the  blindness  of  thy  malice  ?  " 
Thus  to  the  Necromancer  spake 
Nina,  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
A  gentle  Sorceress,  and  benign, 
Who  ne'er  embittered  any  good  man's  chalice. 

"  What  boots,"  continued  she,  "  to  mourn  ? 
To  expiate  thy  sin  endeavor : 
From  the  bleak  isle  where  she  is  laid. 
Fetched  by  our  art,  the  Egyptian  Maid 
May  yet  to  Arthur's  court  be  borne. 
Cold  as  she  is,  ere  life  be  fled  for  ever. 

"  My  pearly  I5<  at,  a  shining  Light, 
That  brought  me  down  that  sunless  river 
Will  bear  me  on  from  wave  to  wave. 
And  back  with  her  to  this  sea-cave ;  — 
Then,  Merlin  !  for  a  rapid  flight 
Through  air,  to  thee  my  Charge  will  I  deliver. 

"  The  very  swiftest  of  thy  cars 

Must,  when  my  part  is  done,  be  ready ; 


234  POEMS    OF    TUE    I.MACilNATION. 

Meanwhile,  for  further  guidance,  look 
Into  thy  own  prophetic  book  ; 
And,  if  that  fail,  consult  the  Stars 
To  learn  thy  course.     Farewell !  be  prompt  and 

steady." 

This  scarcely  spoken,  she  again 
Was  seated  in  her  gleaming  shallop, 
That,  o'er  the  yet-distempered  Deep, 
Pursued  its  way  with  bird-like  sweep, 
Or  like  a  steed,  without  a  rein, 
Urged  o'er  the  wilderness  in  sportive  gallop. 

Soon  did  the  gentle  Nina  reach 
That  Isle  without  a  house  or  haven  ; 
Landing,  she  found  not  what  she  sought, 
Nor  saw  of  wreck  or  ruin  aught 
But  a  carved  Lotus  cast  upon  the  beach 
By  the  fierce  waves,  a  flower  in  marble  graven. 

Sad  relic,  but  how  fair  the  while  ! 
For  gently  each  from  each  retreating 
With  backward  curve,  the  leaves  revealed 
The  bosom  half,  and  half  concealed. 
Of  a  Divinity,  that  seemed  to  smile 
On  Nina,  as  she  passed,  with  hopeful  greeting. 

No  quest  was  hers  of  vague  desire. 
Of  tortured  hope  and  purpose  shaken  ; 
Following  the  margin  of  a  bay. 


THE    EGYPTIAN    JIAID  235 

She  spied  the  lonely  Cast-away, 
Unmarred,  uustripped  of  her  attire, 
But  with  closed  eyes,  —  of  bi-eath  and  bloom  for* 
saken. 

Then  Nina,  stooping  down,  embraced, 
With  tenderness  and  mild  emotion. 
The  Damsel,  in  that  trance  embound  ; 
And,  while  she  raised  her  from  the  ground, 
And  in  the  pearly  shallop  placed, 
Sleep  fell  upon  the  air,  and  stilled  the  ocean. 

The  turmoil  hushed,  celestial  springs 
Of  music  opened,  and  there  came  a  blending 
Of  fragrance,  underived  from  earth, 
With  gleams  that  owed  not  to  the  sun  their  birth, 
And  that  soft  rustling  of  invisible  wings 
Which  Angels  make,  on  works  of  love  descending. 

And  Nina  heard  a  sweeter  voice 
Than  if  the  Goddess  of  the  flower  had  spoken : 
"  Thou  hast  achieved,  fair  Dame  !  what  none 
Less  pure  in  spirit  could  have  done  ; 
Go,  in  thy  enterprise  rejoice  ! 
Air,  earth,  sea,  sky,  and  heaven,  success  betoken.'' 

So  cheered,  she  left  that  Island  bleak, 
A.  bare  rock  of  the  Scilly  cluster ; 
And,  as  they  traversed  the  smooth  brine, 
The  self-illumined  Brigantine 


236  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

Shed,  on  the  Slumberer's  cold,  wan  cheek 
And  pallid  brow,  a  melancholy  lustre. 

Fleet  was  their  course,  and  when  they  came 
To  the  dim  cavern,  whence  the  river 
Issued  into  the  salt-sea  flood, 
Merlin,  as  fixed  in  thought  he  stood, 
"Was  thus  accosted  by  the  Dame : 
"  Behold,  to  thee  my  Charge  I  now  deliver ! 

"But  where  attends  thy  chariot, —  where?" — ■ 
Quoth  Merlin,  "  Even  as  I  was  bidden, 
So  have  I  done ;  as  trusty  as  thy  barge 
My  vehicle  shall  prove,  —  0  precious  Charge  ! 
If  this  be  sleep,  how  soft !  if  death,  how  fair  ! 
Much  have  my  books  disclosed,  but  the  end  i.s 
hidden." 

He  spake  ;  and  gliding  into  view 

Forth  from  tlie  grotto's  dimmest  chamber 

Came  two  mute  Swans,  whose  plumes  of  dusky 

white 
Changed,  as  the  pair  approached  the  light. 
Drawing  an  ebon  car,  their  hue 
(Like  clouds  of  sunset)  into  lucid  amber. 

Once  more  did  gentle  Nina  lift 
The  Princess,  passive  to  all  changes  : 
The  car  received  her  :  —  then  up- went 
Into  the  ethereal  element 


THE    EGYPTIAN    MAID.  237 

The  Birds,  with  progress  smootli  and  swift 
A.S  thought,  when  through  bright  regions  memory 
ranges. 

Sage  Merlin,  at  the  Slumberer's  side, 
Instructs  the  Swans  their  way  to  measure ; 
And  soon  Caerleon's  towers  appeared. 
And  notes  of  minstrelsy  w^ere  heard 
From  rich  pavilions  spreading  wide, 
For  some  high  day  of  long-expected  pleasure. 

Awe-stricken  stood  both  Knights  and  Dames, 
Ere  on  firm  ground  the  car  alighted; 
Eftsoons  astonishment  was  past. 
For  in  that  face  they  saw  the  last, 
Last  lingering  look  of  clay,  that  tames 
All  pride  ;  by  which  all  happiness  is  blighted 

Said  Merlin,  "  Mighty  King,  fair  Lords, 
Away  with  feast  and  tilt  and  tourney ! 
Ye  saw,  throughout  this  royal  House, 
Ye  heard,  a  rocking  marvellous 
Of  turrets,  and  a  clash  of  swords 
Self-shaken,  as  I  closed  my  airy  journey. 

"  Lo  !  by  a  destiny  well  known 
To  mortals,  joy  is  turned  to  sorrow ; 
This  is  the  wished-for  Bride,  the  Maid 
Of  Egypt,  from  a  rock  conveyed 
"Where  she  by  shipwreck  had  been  thrown  ; 
Ql  sight !  but  grief  may  vanish  ere  tlie  morrow." 


238  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGLNATION. 

"  Though  vast  thy  power,  thy  words  are  weak," 
Exclaimed  the  King,  "  a  mockery  hateful ; 
Dutiful  Child,  her  lot  how  hard  ! 
Is  this  her  piety's  reward  ? 
Those  watery  locks,  that  bloodless  cheek  ! 
0  winds  without  remorse  !     O  shore  ungrateful ! 

"  Rich  robes  are  fretted  by  the  moth  ; 
Towers,  temples,  fall  by  stroke  of  thunder ; 
Will  that,  or  deeper  thoughts,  abate 
A  Father's  sorrow  for  her  fate  ? 
He  will  repent  him  of  his  troth ; 
His  brain  will  burn,  his  stout  heart  split  asunder. 

"  Alas  !  and  I  have  caused  this  woe ; 
For,  when  my  prowess  from  invading  Neighbors 
Had  freed  his  Realm,  he  plighted  word 
That  he  would  turn  to  Christ  our  Lord, 
And  his  dear  Daughter  on  a  Knight  bestow 
WTiom  I  should  choose  for  love  and  matchless  la- 
bors. 

''  Her  birth  was  heathen ;  but  a  fence 
Of  holy  Angels  round  her  hovered  : 
A  Lady  added  to  my  court 
So  fair,  of  such  divine  report 
And  worship,  seemed  a  recompense 
For  fifty  kingdoms  by  my  sword  recovered. 

"  Ask  not  for  whom,  O  Champions  true  1 
Khe.  was  reserved  by  me,  her  life's  betrayer ; 


THE    EGYPTIAN    MAID.  289 

She  who  was  meant  to  be  a  bride 
Is  now  a  corse  :  then  put  aside 
Vain  thoughts,  and  speed  ye,  with  observance  due 
Of  Christian  rites,  in  Christian  ground  to  lay  her." 

"  The  tomb,"  said  Merhn,  "  may  not  close 
Upon  her  yet,  earth  hide  her  beauty  ; 
Not  froward  to  thy  sovereign  will 
Esteem  me,  Liege !  if  I,  whose  skUl 
Wafted  her  hither,  interpose 
To  check  this  pious  haste  of  erring  duty. 

"  My  books  command  me  to  lay  bare 

The  secret  thou  art  bent  on  keeping  : 

Here  must  a  high  attest  be  given, 

What    Bridegroom    was   for  her  ordained  by 

Heaven : 
And  in  my  glass  significants  there  are 
Of  things  that  may  to  gladness  turn  this  weeping. 

"  For  this,  approaching  one  by  one, 

Thy  Knights  must  touch  the  cold  hand  of  the 

Virgin ; 
So,  for  the  favored  one,  the  Flower  may  bloom 
Once  more  :  but,  if  unchangeable  her  doom. 
If  life  departed  be  for  ever  gone, 
Some  blest  assurance,  from  this  cloud  emerging, 

"  May  teach  him  to  bewail  his  loss, 
Not  with  a  grief  that,  like  a  vapor,  rises 


210  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  melts,  but  grief  devout  that  shall  endare, 
And  a  perpetual  growth  secure 
Of  purposes  which  no  false  thought  shall  cross, 
A  harvest  of  high  hopes  and  noble  enterprises." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  King  ;  —  "  anon, 
Here,  where  the  Princess  lies,  begin  the  trial ; 
Knights,  each  in  order  as  ye  stand. 
Step  forth."  —  To  touch  the  pallid  hand 
Sir  Agi-avaine  advanced ;  no  sign  he  won 
From  Heaven  or  earth ;  —  Sir  Kaye  had  like  denial. 

Abashed,  Sir  Dinas  turned  away ; 
Even  for  Sir  Percival  was  no  disclosure  ; 
Though  he,  devoutest  of  all  Champions,  ere 
He  reached  that  ebon  car,  the  bier 
"Whereon  diffused  like  snow  the  Damsel  lay, 
Full  thrice  had  crossed  himself  in  meek  composure. 

Imagine  (but  ye  Saints  !  who  can  ?) 
How  in  still  air  the  balance  ti'embled,  — 
The  wishes,  peradventure  the  despites 
That  overcame  some  not  ungenerous  Knights ; 
And  all  the  thoughts  that  lengthened  out  a  span 
Of  time  to  Lords  and  Ladies  tlius  assembled. 

What  patient  confidence  was  here  ! 
And  there  how  many  bosoms  panted  ! 
While  drawing  towai'd  the  car  Sir  Gawaine, 
mailed 


THE    EGYPTIAN    3IAID. 


2-il 


For  tournament,  his  beaver  vailed, 
And  softly  touched ;  but,  to  his  princely  cheer 
And  high  expectancy,  no  sign  was  grant*"^ 

Next,  disencumbered  of  his  harp, 
Sir  Tristram,  dear  to  thousands  as  a  brother, 
Came  to  the  proof,  nor  grieved  that  there  ensued 
No  change  ;  —  the  fair  Izonda  he  had  wooed 
With  love  too  true,  a  love  with  pangs  too  sharp, 
From  hope  too  distant,  not  to  dread  another. 

Not  so  Sir  Launcelot ;  —  from  Heaven's  grace 
A  si"-n  he  craved,  tired  slave  of  vain  contrition ; 
The  royal  Guinever  looked  passing  glad 
When  his  touch  failed.  —  Next  came  Sir  Ga- 
lahad ; 
He  paused,  and  stood  entranced  by  that  still  face, 
Whose  features  he  had  seen  in  noontide  vision. 

For  late,  as  near  a  murmuring  stream 
He  rested,  'mid  an  arbor  gi-een  and  shady, 
Nina,  the  good  Enchantress,  shed 
A  hght  around  his  mossy  bed  ; 
And,  at  her  call,  a  waking  dream 
Prefigured  to  his  sense  the  Egyptian  Lady. 

Now,  Avhile  his  bright-haired  front  he  bowed, 
AikI  stood,  far-kenned  by  mantle  furred  witli 

ermine, 
As  o'er  the  insensate  Body  hung 

"»4>L.    Til.  16 


(J  12  rOE.MS    OF    IHE    IJIAGl^'ATiON. 

The  enrapt,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
Belief  sank  deep  into  the  crowd 
That  he  the  solemn  issue  would  determine. 

Nor  deem  it  strange  ;  the  Youth  had  worn 
That  very  mantle  on  a  day  of  glory, 
The  day  when  he  achieved  that  matchless  feat. 
The  marvel  of  the  Perilous  Seat, 
Which  whosoe'er  approached  of  strength  was 
shorn, 
Though  King  or  Knight  the  most  renowned  in  story. 

He  touched  with  hesitating  hand,  — 

And  lo  !  those  Birds,  fai*-famed  through  Love's 

dominions. 
The  Swans,  in  triumph  clap  their  wings  ; 
And  their  necks  play,  involved  in  rings, 
Like  sinless  snakes  in  Eden's  happy  land. 
"  Aline  is  she,"  cried  the  Knight ;  —  again  thej 

clapped  their  pinions. 

"  JMine  was  she,  —  mine  she  is,  though  dead. 
And  to  her  name  my  soul  shall  cleave  in  sorrow." 
Whereat,  a  tender  twilight  streak 
Of  color  dawned  upon  the  Damsel's  cheek  ; 
And  her  lips,  quickening  with  uncertain  red. 
Seemed  from  each  other  a  faint  warmth  to  borrow 

Deep  was  the  awe,  the  rapture  high. 

Of  love  emboldened,  hope  with  dread  entwining, 


THE    EGYPTIAN    3IA1D.  243 

When  to  the  mouth  relenting  Death 
Allowed  a  soft  and  flower-like  breath, 
Precursor  to  a  timid  sigh, 
To  lifted  eyehds,  and  a  doubtful  shining. 

In  silence  did  King  Arthur  gaze 
Upon  the  signs  that  pass  away  or  tarry  ; 
In  silence  watched  the  gentle  strife 
Of  Nature  leading  back  to  life  ; 
Then  eased  his  soul  at  length  by  praise 
Of  God,  and  Heaven's  pure  Queen,  —  the  blissM 
Mary. 

Then  said  he,  "  Take  her  to  thy  heai-t, 
Sir  Galahad  !  a  treasure  that  God  giveth, 
Bound  by  indissoluble  ties  to  thee 
Through  mortal  change  and  immortality  , 
Be  happy  and  unenvied,  thou  who  art 
A  goodly   Knight   that  hath   no   peer   that   liv- 
eth ! " 

Not  long  the  Nuptials  were  delayed  ; 
And  sage  tradition  still  rehearses 
The  pomp,  the  glory  of  that  hour, 
"When  toward  the  altar  from  her  bower 
King  Arthur  led  the  Egyptian  Maid, 
\nd  Angels  carolled  these  far-echoed  verses :  — ■ 


o 


Who  shrinks  not  from  alUance 
Of  evil  with  good  Powers, 


244  rOK.ilS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

To  God  proclaims  defiance, 
And  mocks  whom  he  adores. 

A  Ship  to  Christ  devoted 
From  the  Land  of  Nile  did  go ; 
Alas  !  the  bright  Ship  floated, 
An  Idol  at  her  prow. 

By  magic  domination, 
The  Heaven-permitted  vent 
Of  purblind  mortal  passion, 
Was  wrought  her  punishment. 

The  Flower,  the  Form  within  it. 
What  served  they  in  her  need? 
Her  port  she  could  not  win  it. 
Nor  from  mishap  be  freed. 

The  tempest  overcame  her, 
And  she  was  seen  no  more  ; 
But  gently,  gently  blame  her,  — 
She  cast  a  Pearl  ashore. 

The  Maid  to  Jesu  hearkened, 
And  kept  to  him  her  faith, 
Till  sense  in  death  was  darkened, 
Or  sleep  akin  to  death. 

But  Angels  round  her  pillow 
Kept  watcl:    a  viewless  band  ; 


THE    EGYPTIAN    MAID. 

And,  billow  favoring  billow, 
She  readied  the  destined  strand. 

Blest  Pair  !  whate'er  befall  you 
Your  faith  in  Him  approve 
Who  from  frail  earth  can  call  you 
To  bowers  of  endless  love  !, 


2i5 


183C. 


THE    RIVER   DUDDON. 


A    SF-BIBS    OF    SONNETS. 


The  River  Duddon  rises  upon  Wrynose  Fell,  on  the  con- 
fines of  Westmoreland,  Cumberland,  and  Lancashire;  and, 
having  sei"ved  as  a  boundary  to  the  two  last  counties  for  the 
space  of  about  twenty-five  miles,  enters  the  Irish  Sea,  between 
the  Isle  of  Walney  and  the  Lordship  of  ftlillum. 


TO   THE   REV.   DR.   WORDSWORTH. 

(WITH   THE   SONNETS    TO   THE  EIVEK   DUDDON,    AND    OTHEB 
POEMS   IN  THIS    COLLECTION,  1820.) 


The  Minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage-eaves; 
While,  smitten  by  a  lofty  moon, 
The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves. 
Gave  back  a  rich  and  dazzling  sheen. 
That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 

Had  sunk  to  rest,  with  folded  wings : 

Keen  was  the  air,  biit  could  not  freeze. 

Nor  check,  the  music  of  the  strings; 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 

That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand! 


THE    RIVER   DUDDOK.  247 

And  who  but  listened  ?  —  till  was  paid 
Kespect  to  every  Inmate's  claim: 
The  greeting  given,  the  music  played, 
In  honor  of  each  household  name, 
Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call, 
And  "  Merry  Christmas"  wished  to  all! 

O  Brother !  I  revere  the  choice 
That  took  thee  from  thy  native  hills; 
And  it  is  given  thee  to  rejoice : 
Though  public  care  full  often  tills 
(Heaven  only  witness  of  the  toil) 
A  barren  and  ungrateful  soil. 

Yet,  would  that  thou,  with  me  and  mine, 

Hadst  heard  this  never-failing  rite; 

And  seen  on  other  faces  shine 

A  true  revival  of  the  light 

Which  Nature  and  these  rustic  Powers, 

In  simple  childhood,  spread  through  ourc  I 

For  pleasure  hath  not  ceased  to  wait 
On  these  expected  annual  rounds ; 
Whether  the  rich  man's  sumptuous  gate 
Call  forth  the  unelaborate  sounds, 
Or  they  are  offered  at  the  door 
That  guards  the  lowliest  of  the  poor. 

How  touching,  when,  at  midnight,  sweep 
Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark, 
To  hear  —  and  sink  again  to  sleep! 
Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark. 
By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 
Of  self-complacent  innocence ;  — 

The  mutual  nod,  —  the  gi-ave  disguise 
Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming  o'er; 
And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 
For  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more; 


248  POEMS    OP    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 
For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid. 

Ah !  not  for  emerald  fields  alone, 

With  ambient  streams  more  pure  and  bright 

Than  fabled  Cytherea's  zone 

Glittering  before  the  Thunderer's  sight, 

Is  to  my  heart  of  hearts  endeared 

The  ground  where  we  were  born  and  reared! 

Hail,  ancient  Manners !  sure  defence, 
Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  laws ; 
Remnants  of  love  whose  modest  sense 
Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws : 
Hail,  Usages  of  pristine  mould ! 
And  ye  that  guard  them,  Moinitains  old! 

Bear  with  me,  Brother!  quench  the  thought 
That  slights  this  passion,  or  condemns; 
If  thee  fond  Fancy  ever  brought 
From  the  proud  margin  of  the  Thames, 
And  Lambeth's  venerable  towers,  • 

To  humbler  streams,  and  greener  bowers. 

Yes,  they  can  make,  who  fail  to  find, 

Short  leisure  even  in  busiest  days ; 

Moments,  to  cast  a  look  behind. 

And  profit  by  those  kindl}^  rays 

That  through  the  clouds  do  sometimes  steal, 

And  all  the  far-off  past  reveal. 

Hence,  while  the  imperial  City's  din 
Beats  frequent  on  thy  satiate  ear, 
A  pleased  attention  I  may  win 
To  agitations  less  severe. 
That  neither  overwhelm  nor  cloy, 
But  fill  the  hollow  vale  witii  joy  I 


THfi.    KlVER    DUDDON.  249 


I. 


Not  envying  Latian  shades,  —  if  yet  they  throw 
A  grateful  coolness  round  that  crystal  Spring, 
Blandusia,  prattling  as  when  long  ago 
The  Sabine  Bard  was  moved  her  praise  to  sing ; 
Careless  of  flowers  that  in  perennial  blow 
Round  the  moist  marge  of  Persian  fountains  cling  ; 
Heedless  of  Alpine  torrents  thundering 
Through  ice-built  arches  radiant  as  heaven's  bow  ; 
I  seek  the  birthplace  of  a  native  Stream.  — 
All  hail,  ye  mountains  !  hail,  thou  morning  light  ! 
Better  to  breathe  at  large  on  this  clear  height. 
Than  toil  in  heedless  sleep  from  dream  to  dream : 
Pure  flow  the  verse,  pure,  vigorous,  free,  and  bright, 
For  Duddon,  long-loved  Duddon,  is  my  theme  ! 


n. 


Child  of  the  clouds  !  remote  from  every  taint 
Of  sordid  industry  thy  lot  is  cast ; 
Thine  are  the  honors  of  the  lofty  waste  ; 
Not  seldom,  when  with  heat  the  valleys  faint, 
Tliy  handmaid  Frost  with  spangled  tissue  quaint 
Thy  cradle  decks  ;  —  to  chant  thy  birth,  thou  hast 
Xo  meaner  Poet  than  the  whistling  Blast, 
And  Desolation  is  thy  Patron-saint ! 
She  guards  thee,  ruthless  Power !  who  would  not 
spare 


250  POEMS    OF    THE    IlIAGINATION. 

Those  raiglity  forests,  once  the  bison's  screen, 
Where  stalked  the  huge  deer  to  his  shaggy  hiir,* 
Through  paths  and  alleys  roofed  with  darkest  green, 
Thousands  of  vears  before  the  silent  air 
Was  pierced  by  whizzing  shaft  of  hunter  keen  ! 


III. 


How  shall  I  paint  thee  ?  —  Be  this  naked  stone 
My  seat,  while  I  give  way  to  such  intent, 
Pleased  could  my  verse,  a  speaking  monument, 
Make  to  the  eyes  of  men  thy  features  known. 
But  as  of  all  those  tripping  lambs  not  one 
Outruns  his  fellows,  so  hath  Nature  lent 
To  thy  beginning  naught  that  doth  present 
Peculiar  ground  for  hope  to  build  upon. 
To  dignify  the  spot  that  gives  thee  birth. 
No  sign  of  hoar  Antiquity's  esteem 
Appears,  and  none  of  modern  Fortune's  care ; 
Yet  tliou  thyself  hast  round  thee  shed  a  gleam 
Of  brilliant  moss,  instinct  with  freshness  rare  ; 
Prompt  offering  to  thy  Foster-mother,  Earth  I 


IV. 

Take,  cradled  Nursling  of  the  mountain,  take 
This  parting  glance,  no  negligent  adieu  ! 

*  The  deer  iiUuded  to  is  the  Leigh,  a  gigantic  species  lor 
since  extinct. 


THE    RIVER    DUDDON.  251 

A.  Protean  change  seems  wrought  while  I  pursue 
The  curves,  a  loosely  scattered  chain  doth  make ; 
Or  rather  thou  appear'st  a  glittering  snake, 
Silent,  and  to  the  gazer's  eye  untrue, 
Thridding  with  sinuous  lapse  the  rushes,  through 
Dwarf  willows  gliding,  and  by  ferny  brake. 
Starts  from  a  dizzy  steep  the  undaunted  Rill 
Robed  instantly  in  garb  of  snow-white  foam  ; 
And  laughing  dares  the  Adventurer,  who  hath  clomb 
So  high,  a  rival  purpose  to  fulfil ; 
Else  let  the  dastard  backward  wend,  and  roam, 
Seeking  less  bold  achievement,  where  he  will ! 


V. 

Sole  listener,  Duddon  !  to  the  breeze  that  played 
With  thy  clear  voice,  I  caught  the  fitful  sound 
"Wafted  o'er  sullen  moss  and  craggy  mound,  — 
Unfruitful  solitudes,  that  seemed  to  upbraid 
The  sun  in  heaven  !  —  but  now,  to  form  a  shade 
For  thee,  green  alders  have  together  wound 
Their  foliage  ;  ashes  flung  their  arms  around  ; 
And  birch-trees  risen  in  silver  colonnade. 
And  thou  hast  also  tempted  here  to  rise, 
'Mid  sheltering  pines,  this  Cottage  rude  and  gray ; 
Whose  ruddy  children,  by  the  mother's  eyes 
Carelessly  watched,  sport  through  the  summer  day^ 
Thy  pleased  associates  :  —  light  as  endless  May 
Dn  infant  bosoms  lonely  Nature  lies. 


252         roEMs  OK  the  imagination. 

VI. 

FLOWERS. 

Ere  yet  our  course  was  graced  with  social  trees, 
It  lacked  not  old  remains  of  hawthorn  bowers, 
Wliere  small  birds  w^arbled  to  their  paramours ; 
And  earlier  still  was  heard  the  hum  of  bees  ; 
I  saw  them  ply  their  harmless  robberies, 
And  caught  the  fragrance  which  the  sundry  flowers, 
Fed  by  the  stream  with  soft,  perpetual  showers, 
Plenteously  yielded  to  the  vagrant  breeze. 
There  bloomed  the  strawberry  of  the  wilderness  ; 
The  trembling  eyebright  showed  her  sapphire  blue, 
The  thyme  her  purple,  like  blush  of  Even  ; 
And  if  the  breath  of  some  to  no  caress 
Invited,  forth  they  peeped  so  fair  to  view, 
All  kinds  alike  seemed  favorites  of  Heaven. 


VII. 

"  Change  me,  some  God,  into  that  breathing  rose!" 
The  love-sick  Stripling  fancifully  sighs. 
The  envied  flower  beholding,  as  it  lies 
On  Laura's  breast,  in  exquisite  repose  ; 
Or  he  would  pass  into  her  bird,  that  throws 
The  darts  of  song  from  out  its  wiry  cage ; 
Enraptured,  —  could  he  for  himself  engage 
The  thousandth  part  of  what  the  Nymph  bestows  ; 


THE    RIVER    DUDDON.  253 

And  what  the  little  careless  innocent 
Ungraciously  receives.     Too  daring  choice 
There  are  whose  calmer  mind  it  would  content 
To  be  an  unculled  floweret  of  the  slcn. 
Fearless  of  plough  and  scythe  ;  or  darkling  wren 
That  tunes  on  Duddon's  banks  her  slender  voice. 


VIII. 

What  aspect  bore  the  Man  who  i-oved  or  tied, 
First  of  his  tribe,  to  this  dark  dell,  —  who  fir.<t 
In  this  pellucid  Current  slaked  his  thirst  ? 
What  hopes  came  with  him  ?  what  designs  were 

spread 
Along  his  path  ?     His  unprotected  bed 
What  dreams  encompassed  ?     Was  the  intruder 

nursed 
In  hideous  usages,  and  rites  accursed. 
That  thinned  the  living  and  disturbed  the  dead  '* 
No  voice  replies  ;  —  both  air  and  earth  are  mute  : 
And  thou,  blue  Streamlet,  murmuring  yield'st  no 

more 
Than  a  soft  record,  that,  whatever  fruit 
Of  ignorance  thou  mightst  witness  heretofore, 
Thy  function  was  to  heal  and  to  restore. 
To  soothe  and  cleanse,  not  madden  and  pollute  \ 


254  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 


IX. 

THE    STEPPING-STONES. 

The  struggling  rill  insensibly  is  grown 
Into  a  bi'ook  of  loud  and  stately  march, 
Croi;sed  ever  and  anon  by  plaiik  or  arch  ; 
And,  for  like  use,  lo  !  what  might  seem  a  zone 
Chosen  for  ornament,  —  stone  matched  with  stone 
In  studied  symmetry,  with  interspace 
For  the  clear  waters  to  pursue  their  race 
Without  restraint.     How  swiftly  have  they  flown, 
Succeeding,  —  still  succeeding!     Here  the  Child 
Puts,  wlien  the  high-swoln  Flood  runs  tierce  and 

wild, 
His  budding  courage  to  the  proof;  and  here 
Declining  Manhood  learns  to  note  the  sly 
And  sure  encroachments  of  infirmity, 
Thinking  how  fast  time  runs,  life's  end  how  near! 


THE  SAJIE   SUBJECT. 


Not  so  that  Pair  whose  youthful  spirits  dance 
With  prompt  emotion,  urging  them  to  pass; 
A  sweet  confusion  checks  the  Shepherd-lass  ; 
Blushing  she  eyes  the  dizzy  flood  askance ; 
To  stop  ashamed, — too  timid  to  advance  : 
r^he  ventures  once  again,  —  another  pause  ' 


THE    RIVKB    DUDDON.  255 

His  outstretched  hand  he  tauntingly  withdraws, — 
She  sues  for  help  with  piteous  utterance  ! 
Chidden  she  chides  again;  the  thrilling  touch 
Both  feel,  when  he  renews  the  wished-for  aid : 
Ah  !  if  their  fluttering  hearts  should  stir  too  much, 
Should  beat  too  strongly,  both  may  be  betrayed. 
The  frolic  Loves,  who,  from  yon  high  rock,  see 
The  struggle,  clap  their  wings  for  victory  ! 


XI. 

THE   FAJiKY   CHASM. 

No  fiction  was  it  of  the  antique  age : 

A  sky-blue  stone,  within  this  sunless  cleft, 

Is  of  the  very  foot-marks  unbereft 

Which  tiny  Elves  impressed;  —  on  that  smooth 

stage 
Dancing  with  all  their  brilliant  equipage 
In  secret  revels,  —  haply  after  theft 
Of  some  sweet  babe,  —  Flower  stolen,  and  coarse 

TTeed  left 
For  the  distracted  mother  to  assuage 
Her  grief  with,  as  she  might !  —  But  where,  O, 

where 
Is  traceable  a  vestige  of  the  notes 
That  ruled  those  dances  wild  in  character  ?  — 
Deep  underground?     Or  in  the  upper  air, 
On  the  shrill  wind  of  midnight  ?  or  where  floats 
O'er  twilight  fields  the  autumnal  gossamer? 


256  POEMS    OF    THt:    IMAGINATION. 


XII. 

HINTS   FOB  THE  FAXCY. 

On,  loiteriug  Muse  !  —  the  swift  Stream  chides  as, 

—  on ! 
Albeit  his  deep-worn  channel  doth  immure 
Objects  immense  portrayed  in  miniature, 
Wild  shapes  for  many  a  strange  comparison ! 
Niagaras,  Alpine  passes,  and  anon 
Abodes  of  Naiads,  calm  abysses  pure, 
Bright  liquid  mansions,  fashioned  to  endure 
When  the  broad  oak  drops,  a  leaHess  skeleton, 
And  the  solidities  of  mortal  pride, 
Palace  and  tower,  are  crumbled  into  dust !  — 
The  Bard  who  walks  with  Duddon  for  his  guide 
Shall  find  such  toys  of  fancy  thickly  set : 
Turn  from  the  sight,  enamored  Muse,  —  we  must; 
A.nd,  if  thou  canst,  leave  them  without  regret ! 


XIH. 
OPEN    PROSPECT. 

Hail  to  the  fields,  —  with  dwellings  sprinkled  o'er, 
And  one  small  hamlet,  under  a  green  hill 
Clustering,  with  barn  and  byre,  and  spouting  mill! 
A  glance  suffices  ;  —  should  we  wish  for  more, 
Gay  June  would  scorn  us.     But  when  bleak  winds 
roar 


THE    RIVER    DUDDOX.  257 

Through  the  stiff,  lance-like  shoots  of  pollard  ash, 
Dread  swell  of  sound  !  loud  as  the  gusts  that  lash 
The  matted  forests  of  Ontario's  shore 
By  wasteful  steel  unsmitten, —  then  would  I 
Turn  into  port;  and,  reckless  of  the  gale, 
Reckless  of  angry  Duddon  sweeping  by, 
While  the  warm  hearth  exalts  the  mantling  ale, 
Laugh  with  the  generous  household  heartily 
At  all  the  merry  pranks  of  Donnerdale  ! 


XIV. 

0  MOUNTAIN  Stream  !  the  Shepherd  and  his  Cot 
Are  privileged  inmates  of  deep  solitude  ; 
Nor  would  the  nicest  Anchorite  exclude 
A  field  or  two  of  brigliter  green,  or  plot 
Of  tillage-ground,  that  seemeth  like  a  spot 
Of  stationary  sunshine  :  —  thou  hast  viewed 
These  only,  Duddon  !  with  their  paths  renewed 
By  fits  and  starts,  yet  this  contents  thee  not. 
Thee  hath  some  awfiil  Spirit  impelled  to  leave, 
Utterly  to  desert,  the  liaunts  of  men, 
Though  sim])le  thy  companions  were  and  few  ; 
And  through  this  wilderness  a  passage  cleave. 
Attended  but  by  thy  own  voice,  save  when 
The  clouds  and  fowls  of  the  air  thy  Avay  pursue  ! 

VOL.   III.  17 


258  POEMS    OP    THE   IMAGINATIOX. 


XV. 


From  this  deep  chasm,  where  quivering  sunbeams 

play 
Upon  its  loftiest  crags,  mine  eyes  behold 
A  gloomy  niche,  capacious,  blank,  and  cold  ; 
A  concave  free  from  shrubs  and  mosses  gray ; 
In  semblance  fresh,  as  if,  with  dire  affray, 
Some  Statue,  placed  aaiid  these  regions  old 
For  tutelary  service,  thence  had  rolled, 
Startling  the  flight  of  timid  Yesterday  ! 
Was  it  by  mortals  sculptured  ?  —  weary  slaves 
Of  slow  endeavor  !  or  abruptly  cast 
Into  rude  shape  by  fire,  with  roaring  blast 
Tempestuously  let  loose  from  central  caves  ? 
Or  fashioned  by  the  turbulence  of  waves, 
Then  when  o'er  highest  hills  the  Deluge  passed? 


XVI. 
A5IERICAN  TRADITION. 

Such  fruitless  questions  may  not  long  beguile 
Or  plague  the  fancy  'mid  the  sculptured  shows 
Conspicuous  yet  where  Oroonoko  floAvs  ; 
There  would  the  Indian  answer  with  a  smile 
Aimed  at  the  White  Man's  ignorance  tlie  while 
Cf  the  Great  Waters  teHing  how  they  rose, 
Covered  the  plain-,  and,  wandering  where  they 
chose. 


Tllli    RIVER    DUDDON.  259 

Mounted  through  every  intricate  defile, 
Triumphant.  —  Inundation  wide  and  deep, 
O'er  Avhich  his  fathers  urged,  to  ridge  and  steep 
Else  unapproachable,  their  buoyant  way  ; 
And  carved,  on  mural  cliff's  undreaded  side, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  beast  of  chase  or  prey ; 
Whate'er  they  sought,  shunned,  loved,  or  deified!* 


XVII. 

RETURN. 

A  DARK  plume  fetch  me  from  yon  blasted  yew, 
Perched  on  whose  top  the  Danish  Raven  croaks  ; 
Aloft,  the  imperial  Bird  of  Rome  invokes 
Departed  ages,  shedding  where  he  flew 
Loose  fragments  of  wild  wailing,  that  bestrew 
The  clouds  and  thrill  the  chambers  of  the  rocks, 
And  into  silence  hush  the  timorous  flocks. 
That,  calmly  couching  while  the  nightly  dew 
iloistened  each  fleece,  beneath  the  twinkling  stars 
Slept  amid  that  lone  camp  on  Hardknot's  height.f 
Whose  guardians  bent  the  knee  to  Jove  and  Mars : 
Or,  near  that  mystic  Round  of  Druid  frame 
Tardily  sinking  by  its  proper  weight 
Deep  into  patient  Earth,  from  whose  smooth  breast 
it  came ! 

*  See  Humboldb's  Personal  Narrative.  f  See  Kote- 


260  POEMS    OF    THE    I.MAGINATIOX. 


XVIII. 
8EATHWAITE   CHAPEL. 

Sacred  Religion  !  "  mothei-  of  form  and  fear," 
Dreafl  arbitress  of  mutable  respect, 
New  I'ites  ordaining  when  the  old  are  wrecked, 
Or  cease  to  please  the  fickle  worshipper ; 
Mother  of  Love  !  (that  name  best  suits  thee  here,) 
Mother  of  Love  !  for  this  deep  vale,  protect 
Truth's  holy  lamp,  pure  source  of  bright  effect, 
Gifted  to  purge  the  vapory  atmosphere 
That  seeks  to  stifle  it ;  —  as  in  those  days 
When  this  low  Pile  *  a  Gosjiel  teacher  knew, 
Whose  good  works  formed  an  endless  retinue  : 
A  Pastor  such  as  Chaucer's  verse  portrays  : 
Such  as  the  heaven-taught  skill  of  Herbert  drew  ; 
And  tender   Goldsmith   crowned   with    dcathles8 
praise  ! 


XIX. 

TRIBUTARY   STREAM. 

IVlv  frame  hath  often  trembled  with  delight 
When  hope  presented  some  far-distant  good, 
That  seemed  from  heaven  descending,  Uke  the  flood 
Of  yon  pure  waters,  from  their  aery  height 

*  See  Note. 


THE    RIVKR    DUDDON.  2GI 

Hurrying,  with  lordly  DudJon  to  unite  ; 
Who,  'mid  a  world  of  images  imprest 
On  the  cahn  depth  of  his  transparent  breast, 
Appears  to  cherish  most  that  Torrent  white, 
The  fairest,  softest,  liveliest  of  them  all ! 
And  seldom  hath  ear  listened  to  a  tune 
INIore  lulling  than  the  busy  hum  of  Noon, 
Swoln  by  that  voice,  —  whose  murmur  musical 
Announces  to  the  thirsty  fields  a  boon 
Dewy  and  fresh,  till  showers  again  shall  fall. 


XX. 

THE  PLAIN   OF   DOXNERDALE. 

The  old  inventive  Poets,  had  they  seen, 
Or  rather  felt,  the  entrancement  that  detains 
Thy  waters,  Duddon  !  'mid  these  flowery  plains,— 
The  still  repose,  the  liquid  lapse  serene, 
Transferred  to  bowers  imperishably  green,  — 
Had  beautified  Elysium  !     But  these  chains 
Will  soon  be  broken  ;  —  a  rough  course  remains, 
Rough  as  the  past ;  where  thou,  of  placid  mien, 
Innocuous  as  a  firstling  of  the  flock, 
And  countenanced  like  a  soft  cerulean  sky, 
Shalt  change  thy  temper  ;  and,  with  many  a  shock 
Given  and  received  in  mutual  jeopardy. 
Dance,  like  a  Bacchanal,  from  rock  to  rock. 
Tossing  her  frantic  thyrsus  wide  and  high  J 


262  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXI. 

Whence  that  low  voice  ?  —  A  whisper  from  the 

heart, 
That  told  of  days  long  past,  when  here  I  rov<'.'l 
With  friends  and  kindred  tenderly  beloved  ; 
Some  who  had  early  mandates  to  depart. 
Yet  are  allowed  to  steal  my  path  athwart 
By  Duddou's  side  ;  once  more  do  we  unite, 
Once  more  beneath  the  kind  Earth's  tranquil  light ; 
And  smothered  joys  into  new  being  start. 
From  her  unworthy  seat,  the  cloudy  stall 
Of  Time,  breaks  forth  triumphant  Memory  ; 
Her  glistening  tresses  bound,  yet  light  and  free 
As  golden  locks  of  birch,  that  rise  and  fall 
On  gales  that  breathe  too  gently  to  recall 
Aught  of  the  fading  year's  inclemency  ! 


XXII. 

TRADITION. 

A  LOVE-LORN  Maid,  at  some  far-distant  time, 

Came  to  this  hidden  pool,  whose  depths  surpass 

[n  ci'ystal  clearness  Dian's  looking-glass  ; 

And,  gazing,  saw  that  Rose,  which  from  the  prime 

Derives  its  name,  reflected  as  the  chime 

Of  echo  doth  reverberate  some  sweet  sound  : 

Tlie  r-tarry  treasure  from  the  blue  profound 


THE    KIVER    DUDDON.  263 

iShe  longed  to  ravish  ;  —  shall  she  plunge,  or  climb 
The  humid  precipice,  and  seize  the  guest 
Of  April,  smiling  high  in  upper  air  ? 
Desperate  alternative  !  what  liend  could  dare 
To  prompt  the  thought  ?  —  Upon  the  steep  rock's 

breast 
The  lonely  Primrose  yet  renews  its  bloom, 
Untouched  memento  of  her  hapless  doom  ! 


xxiu. 

SHEEP-WASHING. 

Sad  thoughts,  avaunt !  —  partake  we  their  blithe 

cheer 
Who  gathered  in  betimes  the  unshorn  flock 
To  wash  the  fleece,  where  haply  bands  of  rock, 
Checking  the  stream,  make  a  pool  smooth  and  clear 
As  this  we  look  on.     Distant  Mountains  hear, 
Hear  and  repeat,  the  turmoil  that  unites 
Clamor  of  boys  with  innocent  despites 
Of  barking  dogs,  and  bleatings  from  strange  fear. 
And  what  if  Duddon's  spotless  flood  receive 
Unwelcome  mixtures  as  the  uncouth  noise 
Thickens,  the  pastoral  River  will  forgive 
Such  wrong  ;  nor  need  we  blame  the  hcensed  joyg, 
Though  false  to  Nature's  quiet  equipoise  : 
Frank  are  the  sports,  the  stains  are  fugitive. 


264  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 

XXIV. 
THE   RESTLXG-PLAfcE. 

Mid-noon  is  past ;  —  upon  the  sultry  mead 
No  zephyr  breathes,  no  cloud  its  shadow  throws : 
If  we  advance  unstrengthened  by  repose, 
Farewell  the  solace  of  the  vagrant  reed  ! 
This  Nook  —  with  woodbine   hung  and  straggling 

weed. 
Tempting  recess  as  ever  pilgrim  chose, 
Half  grot,  half  arbor  —  proffers  to  inclose 
Body  and  mind,  from  molestation  freed. 
In  narrow  compass,  —  narrow  as  itself: 
Or  if  the  Fancy,  too  industrious  Elf, 
Be  loth  that  we  should  breathe  awhihi  exempt 
From  new  incitements  friendly  to  our  task. 
Here  wants  not  stealthy  prospect,  that  may  tempt 
Loose  Idless  to  forego  her  wily  mask. 

XXV. 

Methinks  't  were  no  unprecedented  feat 
Should  some  benignant  minister  of  air 
Lift,  and  encircle  with  a  cloudy  chair. 
The  one  for  whom  my  heart  shall  ever  beat 
With  tenderest  love  ;  —  or,  if  a  safer  seat 
Atween  his  downy  wings  be  furnished,  there 
Would  lodge  her,  and  the  cherished  burden  bear 
O'er  hill  and  valley  to  this  dim  retreat! 
Rough  ways  my  steps  have  trod  ;  —  too  rough  and 
long 


IHE    RIVER    DUDDON.  265 

For  her  companionship  ;  here  dwells  soft  ease : 
With  sweets  that  she  partakes  not  some  distaste 
Mingles,  and  lurking  consciousness  of  wrong  ; 
Languish  the  flowers  ;  the  waters  seem  to  waste 
Their  vocal  charm ;  their  sparklings  cease  to  please. 


XXVI. 

Return,  Content !  for  fondly  I  pursued, 
Even  when  a  child,  the  Streams,  —  unheard,  un- 
seen ; 
Through  tangled  woods,  impending  rocks  between  ; 
Or,  free  as  air,  with  flying  inquest  viewed 
The  sullen  reservoirs  whence  their  bold  brood  — 
Pure  as  the  morning,  fi-etful,  boisterous,  keen, 
Green  as  the  salt-sea  billows,  white  and  green  — 
Poured  down  the  hills,  a  choral  multitude  ! 
Nor  have  I  tracked  their  course  for  scanty  gains  ; 
They  taught  me  random  cares  and  truant  joys, 
That  shield  from  mischief  and  preserve  from  stains 
Vague  minds,  while  men  are  growing  out  of  boys; 
Maturer  Fancy  owes  to  their  rough  noise 
Impetuous  thoughts  that  brook  not  servile  reins. 


XXVII. 

Fallen,  and  diffused  into  a  shapeless  heap, 
3r  quietly  self-buried  in  earth's  mould. 


266  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Is  that  embattled  House,  whose  massy  Keep 
Flung  from  yon  cliff  a  shadow  large  and  cold. 
There  dwelt  the  gay,  the  bountiful,  the  bold  ; 
Till  nightly  lamentations,  like  the  sweep 
Of  winds,  —  though  winds  were  silent, — struck 

a  deep 
And  lasting  terror  through  that  ancient  Hold. 
Its  line  of  Warriors  fled ;  —  they  shrunk  when  tried 
By  ghostly  power :  —  but  Time's  unsparing  hand 
Hath  plucked  such  foes,  like  weeds,  from  out  the 

land ; 
A.nd  now,  if  men  with  men  in  peace  abide, 
AJl  other  strength  the  weakest  may  withstand, 
All  worse  assaults  may  safely  be  defied. 


XXYIII. 
JOURNEY   RENEWED. 

I  ROSE  while  yet  the  cattle,  heat-oppressed. 
Crowded  together  under  rustling  trees 
Brushed  by  the  current  of  the  water-breeze  ; 
And  for  their  sakes,  and  love  of  all  that  rest, 
On  Duddon's  margin,  in  the  sheltering  nest ; 
For  all  the  startled  scaly  tribes  that  slink 
Into  his  coverts,  and  each  fearless  link 
Of  dancing  insects  forged  upon  his  breast ; 
For  these,  and  hopes  and  recollections  worn 
Close  to  the  vital  seat  of  human  clay,  — 
Crlad  meetings,  tender  partings,  that  upstay 


THE    RIVER    DUDDON.  267 

The  drooping  mind  of  absence,  by  v(»ws  sworn 
In  his  pure  presence  near  the  trysting-thorn.  — 
I  thanked  tlie  Leader  of  my  onward  way. 


XXIX. 

No  record  tells  of  lance  opposed  to  lance, 

Horse  charging  horse,  'mid  these  retired  domains  ; 

Tells  that  their  turf  drank  purple  from  the  veins 

Of  heroes,  fallen,  or  struggling  to  advance. 

Till  doubtful  combat  issued  in  a  trance 

Of  victory,  that  struck  through  heart  and  reins 

Even  to  the  inmost  seat  of  mortal  pains. 

And  lightened  o'er  the  pallid  countenance. 

Yet,  to  the  loyal  and  the  brave,  who  lie 

In  the  blank  earth,  neglected  and  foi'lorn. 

The  passing  Winds  memorial  tribute  pay  ; 

The  Torrents  chant  their  praise,  inspiring  scorn 

Of  power  usurped  ;  with  proclamation  high, 

And  glad  acknowledgment,  of  lawful  sway. 


XXX. 

Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce 
Of  that  serene  companion,  a  good  name. 
Recovers  not  his  loss  ;  but  walks  with  shame, 
With  doubt,  with  fear,  and  haply  with  remorse : 
And  ofttimes  he,  who,  yielding  to  the  force 


268  poi:ms  of  the  imagination. 

Of  chance-teraptation,  ere  his  journey  end, 
From  chosen  comrade  turns,  or  faitliful  friend, 
La  vain  shall  rue  the  broken  intercourse. 
Not  so  with  such  as  loosely  wear  the  chain 
Tliat  binds  them,  pleasant  river  !  to  tliy  side  :  — 
Through  the  rough  copse  wheel  thou  with  liasly 

stride  ; 
I  choose  to  saunter  o'er  the  grassy  plain, 
Sure,  when  the  separation  has  been  tried, 
That  we,  who  part  in  love,  shall  meet  again. 


XXXI. 

The  Kirk  of  Ulpha  to  the  pilgrim's  eye 

Is  welcome  as  a  star,  that  doth  pi*esent 

Its  shining  forehead  through  the  peaceful  rent 

Of  a  black  cloud  diffused  o'er  half  the  sky  ; 

Or  as  a  fruitful  palm-tree  towering  high 

O'er  the  ])arched  waste  beside  an  Arab's  tent ; 

Or  the  Indian  tree  wliose  branches,  downward  bent, 

Take  root  again,  a  boundless  canopy. 

How  sweet  were  leisure  !  could  it  yield  no  more 

Than  'mid  that  wave-washed  Churci)vard  to  re- 

cline. 
From  pastoral  graves  extracting  thoughts  divine ; 
Or  there  to  pace,  and  mark  the  summits  hoar 
Of  distant  moonlit  mountains  faintly  shine, 
Soothed  by  the  unseen  River's  gentle  roar. 


THK    RIVER    DUDDON.  269 


XXXII. 

Not  hurled  precipitous  from  ste^  to  steep  ; 
Lingerinc;  no  more  'mid  flower-enamelled  lands 
And  blooming  thickets  ;  nor  by  rocky  bands 
Held ;  but  in  radiant  progress  toward  the  Deep, 
Where  mightiest  rivers  into  powerless  sleep 
Sink,  and  forget  their  nature,  —  now  expands 
Majestic  Duddon,  over  smooth,  flat  sands 
Gliding  in  silence  with  unfettered  sweep  ! 
Beneath  an  ampler  sky,  a  region  wide 
Is  opened  round  him ;  —  hamlets,  towers,  and  towns, 
And  blue-topped  hills,  behold  him  from  afar  ; 
In  stately  mien  to  sovereign  Thames  allied, 
Spreading  his  bosom  under  Kentish  downs, 
With  commerce  freighted,  or  triumphant  war. 


XXXIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

But  here  no  cannon  thunders  to  the  gale  ; 
Upon  the  wave  no  haughty  pendants  cast 
A  crimson  splendor  :  lowly  is  the  mast 
That  rises  here,  and  humbly  spread,  the  sail ; 
While,  less  disturbed  than  in  the  narrow  Vale 
Through  which  with  strange  vicissitudes  he  passed, 
riie  wanderer  seeks  that  receptacle  vast 
Where  all  his  un^nbitious  functions  fail. 


270  POEirS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  may  thy  Poet,  cloud-born  Stream !  be  free  — 
The  sweets  of  earth  contentedly  resigned, 
And  each  tumultuous  working  left  behind 
At  seemly  distance  —  to  advance  like  Thee  ; 
Pi-epared,  in  peace  of  heart,  in  calm  of  mind 
And  soul,  to  mingle  with  Eternity. 


XXXIV. 
AFTBR-THOUGHT. 

T  THOUGHT  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide, 
As  being  passed  away.  —  Vain  sympathies  ! 
For,  backward,  Diiddon!   as  I  cast  my  eyes, 
T  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide  ; 
Still  glides  the  Stream,  and  shall  for  ever  glide  ; 
The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies  ; 
While  tve,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise, 
We  Men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
Tlie  elements,  must  vanish  ; —  be  it  so  ! 
Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour : 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go, 
Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith^s  transcend- 
ent dower. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 


YARROW    REVISITED, 
AND   OTHER  POEMS, 

l?OMPOSED   (two  excepted)   DURING   A  TOUR  IN  SCOTLAITO, 

AND   ON  THE  ENGLISH   BORDER,    IN    THE   AUTUMN 

OF    1831. 


TO 

SAMUEL  ROGERS,   ESC^., 

IB    A    TESTIMOXT    OF    FRIENDSHIP,     AND    ACKNOWIEDQMENT    OP    INTBt- 

LECTOAL   OBLIGATIOXS,   THESE   MEMORIALS  ARE  AFFECTIOSATELT 

INSCRIBED. 

Rtdal  Modnt,  Dec.  11, 1834. 


I. 

[The  following  Stanzas  are  a  memorial  of  a  day  passed  with 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  other  friends  visiting  the  Banks  of  the 
Yan-ow  under  his  guidance,  immediately  before  liis  departure 
i?Dm  Aobotsford,  for  Naples. 

The  title  Farrow  Revisited  will  stand  in  no  need  of  explana- 
ti»  n,  for  Readers  acquainted  with  the  Author's  previous  poema 
suggested  by  that  celebrated  Stream.] 

The  gallant  Youth,  who  mav  have  gained, 
Or  seeks,  a  "  winsome  Marrow," 

Was  but  an  Infant  in  tlie  lap 
"\riien  lii-st  I  looked  on  Yarrow  ; 


272  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

Once  more,  by  Newai'k's  Castle-gate 

Long  left  without  a  wai'der, 
I  stood,  looked,  listened,  and  with  thee, 

Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border! 

Grave  thoughts  ruled  wide  on  that  sweet  day 

Their  dignity  installing 
In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 

Were  on  the  bough,  or  falling ; 
But  breezes  played,  and  sunshine  gleame<l, 

Tlie  forest  to  embolden  ; 
Reddened  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 

Transparence  through  the  golden. 

For  busy  thoughts  the  Stream  flowed  on 

In  foamy  agitation  ; 
And  slept  in  many  a  crystal  pool 

P"'or  quiet  contemplation  : 
No  public  and  no  private  care 

The  freeborn  mind  enthralling, 
We  made  a  day  of  happy  hours. 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk  Youth  apj)eared,  the  IMorn  of  youth, 

With  freaks  of  graceful  folly,  — 
Life's  temperate  Noon,  her  sober  Eve, 

Her  Night  not  melancholy ; 
Past,  present,  future,  all  appeared 

In  harmony  united, 
Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from  far, 

Rv  cordial  Ion'C  invited. 


YARROW   REVISITK1>.  273 

And  if,  as  Yarrow,  through  the  woods 

And  down  the  meadow  ranging, 
Did  meet  us  with  unaltered  face, 

Though  we  were  clianged  and  changing; 
If,  then,  some  natural  shadows  spread 

Our  inward  prospect  over, 
The  soul's  deep  valley  was  not  slow 

Its  brightness  to  recover. 

Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment! 
The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  Sons 

For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment ; 
Albeit  sickness,  lingering  yet, 

Has  o'er  their  pillow  brooded  ; 
And  Care  waylays  their  steps,  —  a  Sprite 

Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O  Scott  !  compelled  to  change 

Green  Eildon  Hill  and  Cheviot 
For  warm  Vesuvio's  vine-clad  slopes  ; 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  and  Teviot 
For  mild  Sorento's  breezy  waves  ; 

May  classic  Fancy,  linking 
With  native  Fancy  her  fresh  aid, 

Preserve  thy  heart  from  sinking  ! 

O,  while  they  minister  to  thee. 

Each  vying  with  the  other, 
IMay  Health  return  to  mellow  Age. 

Witli  Strength,  her  venturous  brother, 
v.ir..   III.  IS 


274  i'OKJlS    OF    THE    IJIAGINATIOK. 

And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 
Renowned  in  song  and  story, 

With  unimagined  beauty  shine, 
Nor  lose  one  ray  of  gloiy  ! 

For  Thou,  upon  a  hundred  streams, 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 
Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow  ; 
And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseett; 

Wherever  they  invite  thee, 
At  parent  Nature's  grateful  call, 

With  gladness  must  requite  thee. 

A  gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine, 

Such  looks  of  love  and  honor 
As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 

When  first  I  gazed  upon  her  ; 
Beheld  wliat  I  had  feared  to  see. 

Unwilling  to  surrender 
Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days, 

The  holy  and  the  tender. 

And  what,  for  this  frail  world,  were  all 

That  mortals  do  or  suffer. 
Did  no  responsive  hav]),  no  pen. 

Memorial  tribute  offer  ? 
Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature's  self? 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us, 
Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 

That  hourly  speaks  within  us? 


YARROW    REVISITED.  275 

Nor  Jeem  that  localized  Romance 

Plays  false  with  our  affections  ; 
Unsanctifies  our  tears,  —  made  sport 

For  fanciful  dejections : 
Ah,  no  I  the  visions  of  the  past 

Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is,  —  our  changeful  Life, 

With  friends  and  kindred  dealing. 

Bear  witness,  ye,  whose  thoughts  that  day 

In  Yarrow's  groves  were  centred  ; 
Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 

Of  mouldering  Newark  entered  ; 
And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 

Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  "  last  Minstrel,"  (not  the  last !) 

Ere  he  his  Tale  recounted. 

Flow  on  for  ever,  Yarrow  Stream  ! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty, 
Well  pleased  that  future  Bai'ds  should  chant 

For  simple  hearts  thy  beauty  ; 
To  dream-light  dear  while  yet  unseen, 

Dear  to  the  common  sunshine, 
.4nd  dearer  still,  as  now  I  feel. 

To  memoi'y's  shadowy  moonshine  ! 


276  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


II. 


ON  THE  DEPAKTUKE  OF  SIR  WALTEK  SCOTT  FROM  ABBuTS- 
FOKD,  FOE  NAPLES. 

A  TROUBLK,  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain, 
Nor  of  the  setting  sun's  pathetic  light 
Engendered,  hangs  o'er  Eildon's  triple  height : 
Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 
For  kindred  Power  departing  from  their  sight ; 
While  Tweed,  best  pleased  in  chanting  a  blithe 

strain. 
Saddens  his  voice  again,  and  yet  again. 
Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  Mourners  !  for  tlie  might 
Of  the  whole  world's  good  wishes  with  him  goes  ; 
Blessings  and  prayers,  in  nobler  I'etinue 
Than  sceptred  king  or  laurelled  conqueror  know  3, 
Follow  this  wondrous  Potentate.     Be  true, 
Ye  winds  of  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea. 
Wafting  your  Charge  to  soft  Parthenope  I 


III. 


A  PLACE  OF  BUEIAL  IN  THE  SOUTH   OF  SCOTLAJUD. 

Part  fenced  by  man,  part  by  a  rugged  steep 
That  curbs  a  foaming  brook,  a  Graveyard  lies; 
Tlie  hare's  best  couching-place  for  fearless  sleep; 
VVliich  moonlit  elves,  far  seen  by  credulous  eyes, 


SONNETS.  277 

Enter  in  dance.     Of  church,  or  Sabbath  ties, 
No  vestige  now  remains  ;  yet  thither  ex'eep 
Bereft  ones,  and  in  lowly  anguish  weep 
Their  prayers  out  to  the  wind  and  naked  skies. 
Proud  tomb  is  none ;  but  I'udely  sculptured  knights, 
By  humble  choice  of  plain  old  times,  are  seen 
Level  with  earth,  among  the  hillocks  green  : 
Union  not  sad,  when  sunny  daybreak  smites 
The  si)angled  turf,  and  neighboring  thickets  ring 
With  jubilate  from  the  choirs  of  spring  ! 


IV. 

ON  THE  SIGHT   OF   A  MANSE   IN    THE   SOUTH   OF    SCOTLAND. 

Say,  ye  far-travelled  clouds,  far-seeing  hills,  — 
Among  the  happiest-looking  homes  of  men 
Scattered  all  Britain  over,  through  deep  glen, 
On  airy  upland,  and  by  forest  rills. 
And  o'er  wide  plains  cheered  by  the  lark  that  trills 
His  sky-born  warblings, — does  aught  meet  your  ken 
More  fit  to  animate  the  Poet's  pen, 
Aught  that  more  surely  by  its  aspect  fills 
Pure  minds  with  sinless  envy,  than  the  Abode 
Of  the  good  Priest :  who,  faithful  through  all  hours 
To  his  high  charge,  and  truly  serving  God, 
Has  yet  a  heart  and  hand  for  trees  a- id  flowers, 
Enjoys  the  walks  his  predecessors  trod, 
N^or  covets  lineal  rights  in  lands  and  towers. 


278  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 


COMPOSED   IN   ROSLIN   CHAPEL,   DURING  A   STORM 

The  wind  is  now  thy  organist ;  —  a  clank 
(We  know  not  whence)  ministers  for  a  bell 
To  mark  some  change  of  service.     As  the  swell 
Of  music  i-eached  its  height,  and  even  when  sank 
The  notes,  in  prelude,  Roslin  !  to  a  blank 
Of  silence,  how  it  thrilled  thy  sumptuous  roof, 
Pillars,  and  arches,  —  not  in  vain  time-proof, 
Tho'  Christian  rites  be  wanting !     From  wliat  bank 
Came  those  live  herbs  ?  by  what  hand  were  tliey 

sown, 
Where  dew  falls  not,  where  rain-drops  seem  un- 
known ? 
Yet  in  the  Temple  they  a  friendly  niche 
Share  with  their  sculptured  fellows,  that,  green- 
grown, 
rCopy  their  beauty  more  and  more,  and  preach, 
Though  mute,  of  all  things  blending  into  one. 


TI. 

THE   TROSACHS. 

There  's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, 
liut  were  an  apt  confessional  for  one 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 


SONKETS.  27'J 

Withered  at  eve.     Frem  scenes  of  ai't  which  chase 
That  tliought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  ejes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  fehcities, 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than 

glass 
Untouched,  unbreathed  upon.  Thrice-happy  quest. 
If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 
That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay, 
Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest ! 


VII. 

The  pibroch's  note,  discountenanced  or  mute  ; 

The  Roman  kilt,  degraded  to  a  toy 

Of  quaint  apparel  for  a  half-spoilt  boy ; 

The  target  mouldering  like  ungathered  fruit ; 

The  smoking  steamboat  eager  in  pursuit. 

As  eagerly  pursued ;  the  umbrella  spread 

To  weather-fend  the  Celtic  herdsman's  head,  — 

All  speak  of  manners  withering  to  the  root. 

And  of  old  honors,  too,  and  passions  high : 

Then  may  we  ask,  though  pleased  that  thought 

should  range 
Among  the  conquests  of  civility. 
Survives  Imagination,  to  the  change 
Superior  ?     Help  to  Virtue  does  she  give  ? 
ii  not,  O  Mortals,  better  cease  to  live! 


280  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

« 

VIII. 
COMPOSED   IN  THE   GLEN  OF  LOCH  ETIVE. 

•*  This  Land  of  Rainbows  spanning  glens  whost' 

walls, 
Rock-built,  are  hungwith  rainbow-colored  mists, — 
Of  far-stretched    Meres   whose  salt   flood  never 

rests,  — 
Of  tuneful  Caves  and  playful  Waterfalls,  — 
Of  Mountains  varying  momently  their  crests, — 
Proud  be  this  Land  !  whose  poorest  huts  are  halls 
Where  Fancy  entertains  becoming  guests  ; 
While  native  song  the  heroic  Past  recalls." 
Thus,  in  the  net  of  her  own  wishes  caught, 
The  Muse  exclaimed ;  but  Story  now  must  hide 
Her  trophies,  Fancy  crouch ;  the  course  of  pride 
Has  been  diverted,  other  lessons  taught,' 
That  make  the  Patriot-spirit  bow  her  head 
Where  the  all-conquering  Roman  feared  to  tread. 

IX. 

EAGLES. 

Composed  at  Dunolly  Castle  in  the  Bay  of  Oban. 

DisnONOUEU  Rock  and  Ruin  !  that,  by  law 
Tyrannic,  keep  the  Bird  of  Jove  embarred 
Like  a  lone  criminal  whose  life  is  spared. 
V^exed  is  he,  and  screams  loud.     The  last  I  saw 
Was  on  the  wing;  stoopinjr,  he  struck  with  awe 


SONNETS.  281 

Man,  bird,  and  beast ;  then,  with  a  consort  ])aired, 
From  a  bold  headland,  their  loved  aery's  guard, 
Flew  high  above  Atlantic  waves,  to  draw 
Light  from  the  fountain  of  the  setting  sun. 
Such  was  this  Prisoner  once ;  and,  when  his  plumes 
The  sea-blast  ruffles  as  the  storm  comes  on. 
Then,  for  a  moment,  he,  in  spirit,  resumes 
His  rank  'mong  freeborn  creatures  that  live  free, 
His  power,  his  beauty,  and  his  majesty. 


IN   THE   SOUND   OF   MULL. 

Tradition,  be  thou  mute  !     Oblivion,  throw 
Thy  veil  in  mercy  o'er  the  records,  hung 
Round  strath  and  mountain,  stamped  by  the  an- 
cient tongue 
On  rock  and  ruin  darkening  as  we  go,  — 
Spots  where  a  word,-  ghost-like,  survives  to  show 
What  crimes  from  hate,  or  desperate  love,  have 

sprung ; 
From  honor  misconceived,  or  fancied  wrong, 
What  feuds,  not  quenched  but  fed  by  mutual  woe. 
Yet,  though  a  wild,  vindictive  Race,  untamed 
By  civil  arts  and  labors  of  the  pen. 
Could  gentleness  be  scorned  by  those  fierce  Men, 
Who,  to  spread  wide  the  reverence  they  claimed 
For  patriarchal  occupations,  named 
Ton  towering  Peaks, "  Shepherds  of  Etive  Glen  ?  "  * 

*  In  Gaelic,  Buachaill  £iU 


282  POEJIS    OF    THE    IHAGIXATIOX 

XI. 

SUGGESTED   AT  TYNDRUM    IN   A   STORM. 

Enough  of  garlands,  of  the  Arcadian  crook, 
And  all  that  Gi'eece  and  Italy  have  sung 
Of  Swains  reposing  myrtle  groves  among  ! 
Ours  couch  on  naked  rocks,  —  will  cross  a  brook 
Swoln  with  chill  rains,  nor  ever  cast  a  look 
This  way  or  that,  or  give  it  even  a  thought 
More  than  by  smoothest  pathway  may  be  brought 
Into  a  vacant  mind.     Can  written  book 
Teach  Avhat  they  learn  ?    Up,  hardy  Mountaineer ! 
And  guide  the  Bard,  ambitious  to  be  one 
Of  Nature's  privy  council,  as  thou  ai't. 
On  cloud-sequestered  heights,  that  see  and  hear 
To  what  dread  Powers  He  delegates  his  part 
On  earth,  who  works  in  the  heaven  of  heavens, 
alone. 


XII. 


THE  EAKL  OF  BREADALRANE'S   RUINED  MANSION,  AND   FAM- 
ILY   BUlilAL-PLACE,   NEAR    KILUN. 

AVkll  sang  the  Bard  who  called  the  grave,  in 

sti'ains 
Thoughtful  and  sad,  the  "  narrow  house."    No  style 
Of  fond  sepulchral  flattery  can  beguile 
Grief  of  her  sting ;  nor  cheat,  where  he  detauis 
The  sleeping  dust,  stern  Death.     How  reconcile 


SONNETS.  283 

With  truth,  or  with  each  other,  decked  remains 
Of  a  once  warm  Abode,  and  that  new  Pile, 
For  the  departed,  built  with  curious  pains 
And  mausolean  pomp  ?     Yet  here  thej  stand 
Together,  —  'mid  trim  walks  and  artful  bowers. 
To  be  looked  down  upon  by  ancient  hills, 
That,  for  the  hving  and  the  dead,  demand 
And  pi'ompt  a  harmony  of  genuine  powers  ; 
Concord  that  elevates  the  mind,  and  stills. 


XIII. 

"rest  and  be  thankful!" 

At  the  Head  of  Glencroe. 

Doubling  and  doubling  with  laborious  walk, 
Who,   that  has   gained  at  length  the   wished-for 

Height, 
This  brief  this  simple  way-side  Call  can  slight. 
And  rests  not  thankful?      Whether  cheered  by 

talk 
With  some  loved  friend,  or  by  the  unseen  hawk 
Wliistling  to  clouds  and  sky-bom   streams,  that 

shine 
At  the  sun's  outbreak,  as  with  light  divine, 
Ere  they  descend  to  nourish  root  and  stalk 
Of  valley  flowers.     Nor,  while  the  limbs  repose, 
Will  we  forget  that,  as  the  fowl  can  keep 
.Absolute  stillness,  poised  aloft  in  air, 
fVnd  fishes  front,  unmoved,  the  torrent's  sweep,  — 


284         roE.-MS  OF  the  imagination. 

So  may  the  Soul,  through  powers  that  Faith  be- 
stows, 

Win  rest,  and  ease,  and  peace,  with  bliss  that 
Angels  share. 


XIV. 
HIGHLAND   HUT. 

See  what  gay  wild-flowers  deck  this  earth-bnilt 
Cot, 

Whose  smoke,  forth-issuing  whence  and  how  it 
may. 

Shines  in  the  greeting  of  the  sun's  first  I'ay 

Like  wreaths  of  vapor  without  stain  or  blot. 

The  limpid  mountain  rill  avoids  it  not ; 

And  why  shouldst  thou  ? — If  rightly  trained  and 
bred. 

Humanity  is  humble,  finds  no  spot 

Wliich  her  Heaven-guided  feet  refuse  to  tread. 

The  walls  are  cracked,  sunk  is  the  flowery  roof, 

Undi'essed  the  pathway  leading  to  the  door ; 

l)ut  love,  as  Nature  loves,  the  lonely  Poor ; 

Search,  for  their  worth,  some  gentle  heart  wrong- 
proof. 

Meek,  patient,  kind,  and,  were  its  trials  fewer, 

Belike  less  happy.  —  Stand  no  more  aloof '  * 

*  See  Note. 


THE    HIGHLAND    BROACH.  285 

XV. 

THE  HIGHLAND   BROACH. 

The  exact  resemblance  which  the  old  Broach  (still  in  use, 
though  rarely  met  with,  among  the  Highlanders)  bears  to  the 
Roman  Fibula  must  strike  every  one,  and  concurs,  with  the 
plaid  and  Ivilt,  to  recall  to  mind  the  communication  which  the 
ancient  Romans  had  with  tills  remote  country. 

If  to  Tradition  faith  be  due, 
And  echoes  from  old  verse  speak  true, 
Ere  the  meek  Saint,  Columba,  bore 
Glad  tidings  to  lona's  shore, 
No  common  light  of  nature  blest 
The  mountain  region  of  the  west, 
A  land  where  gentle  manners  ruled 
O'er  men  in  dauntless  virtues  schooled, 
That  raised,  for  centuries,  a  bar 
Impervious  to  the  tide  of  war  : 
Yet  peaceful  Arts  did  entrance  gain 
Where  haughty  Force  had  striven  in  vain  ; 
And,  'mid  the  works  of  skilful  hands, 
By  wanderers  brought  from  foreign  lands 
And  various  climes,  was  not  unknown 
The  clasp  that  fixed  the  Roman  Gown  ; 
The  Fibula,  whose  shape,  I  ween, 
Still  in  the  Highland  Broach  is  seen, 
The  silver  Broach  of  massy  frame, 
Worn  at  the  breast  of  some  grave  Dame 
On  road  or  path,  or  at  the  door 
Of  fern-thatched  hut  on  hcatliy  moor  : 


286  roEMS  OF  the  imagination. 

But  delicate  of  yore  its  mould, 
And  the  material  finest  gold  ; 
As  might  beseem  the  fairest  Fair, 
"Whether  she  graced  the  royal  chair, 
Or  shed,  within  a  vaulted  hall, 
No  fancied  lustre  on  the  wall 
Where  shields  of  mighty  heroes  hung, 
While  Fingal  heard  what  Ossian  sung. 

The  heroic  Age  expired,  —  it  slept 
Deep  in  its  tomb  :  —  the  bramble  crept 
O'er  Fingal's  hearth  ;  the  grassy  sod 
Grew  on  the  floors  his  sons  had  trod : 
Maivina!  whei'e  art  thou  ?     Their  state 
The  noblest-born  must  abdicate  ; 
The  fairest,  while  with  fire  and  sword 
Come  Spoilers,  horde  impelling  horde, 
INIust  walk  the  sorrowing  mountains,  drest 
]jy  ruder  hands  in  homelier  vest. 
Yet  still  the  female  bosom  lent. 
And  loved  to  borrow,  ornament ; 
Still  was  its  inner  world  a  place 
Reached  by  the  dews  of  heavenly  grace  ; 
Still  pity  to  this  last  retreat 
Clove  fondly  ;  to  his  favorite  seat 
Love  wound  his  way  by  soft  approach, 
Beneath  a  raassier  Ilia-hland  Broach. 


o 


When  alternations  came  of  rage 
Vet  fiercer,  in  a  darker  age  ; 


THE    HIGHLAND    BROACH.  287 

And  feuds,  where,  clan  encountering  clan. 

The  weaker  perished  to  a  man  ; 

For  maid  and  mother,  when  despair 

Might  else  have  triumphed,  baffling  prayer, 

One  small  procession  lacked  not  power, 

Provided  in  a  calmer  hour, 

To  meet  such  need  as  might  befall,  — 

Roof,  raiment,  bread,  or  burial : 

For  woman,  even  of  tears  bereft. 

The  hidden  silver  Broach  was  left. 

As  generations  come  and  go, 
Their  arts,  their  customs,  ebb  and  flow  ; 
Fate,  fortune,  sweeps  strong  powers  away. 
And  feeble,  of  themselves,  decay ; 
What  poor  abodes  the  heirloom  hide. 
In  which  the  castle  once  took  pride  ! 
Tokens,  once  kept  as  boasted  Avealth, 
If  saved  at  all,  are  saved  by  stealth. 
Lo  !  ships,  from  seas  by  nature  barred, 
jMount  along  ways  by  man  prepared  ; 
And  in  far-stretching  vales,  whose  streams 
Seek  other  seas,  their  canvas  gleams. 
Lo  !  busy  towns  spring  up,  on  coasts 
Thronged  yesterday  by  airy  ghosts  ; 
Soon,  like  a  lingering  star  forlorn 
Among  the  novelties  of  morn. 
While  young  delights  on  old  encroach. 
Will  vanish  the  last  Highland  Broach. 


288  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

But  when,  from  out  their  viewless  bed 


Like  vapors,  years  have  rolled  and  spread  ; 
And  this  poor  verse,  and  worthier  lays, 
Sliall  yield  no  light  of  love  or  praise  ; 
Then,  by  the  spade,  or  cleaving  plough, 
Or  torrent  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
Or  whirlwind,  reckless  what  his  might 
Entombs,  or  forces  into  light ; 
Blind  Chance,  a  volunteer  ally, 
That  oft  befriends  Antiquity, 
And  clears  Oblivion  fi-om  reproach, 
May  render  back  the  Highland  Broach.* 


XVI. 
THE   BROWXIE. 


[Upon  a  small  island  not  far  from  the  head  of  Loch  Lomond 
are  some  remains  of  an  ancient  building,  which  was  for  several 
years  the  abode  of  a  solitary  Individual,  one  of  the  last  survivors 
of  the  clan  of  JIacfarlane,  once  powerful  in  that  neighborhood. 
Passing  along  the  shore  opposite  this  island  in  the  year  1814, 
the  Author  learned  these  particulars,  and  that  this  person  then 
living  there  had  acquired  the  appellation  of  "  The  Brownie." 
See  "  The  Brownie's  Cell,"  p.  48,  to  which  the  following  is  a 
sequel.] 

"  How  disappeared  he  ?  "  Ask  tlie  newt  and  toad; 
Ask  of  his  fellow-men,  and  they  will  tell 

*  How  much  the  Broach  is  sometimes  prized  by  persons  in 
hiimble  stations  may  be  gathered  from  an  occurrence  mentioned 
to  me  by  a  female  friend.     She  had  an  opportunity  of  benefit- 


SONNETS.  289 

How  he  was  found,  cold  as  an  icicle, 

Under  an  arch  of  that  forlorn  abode  ; 

Where  he,  unpropp'd,  and  by  the  gathering  flood 

Of  years  hemmed  round,  had  dwelt,  prepared  to  tiy 

Privation's  worst  extremities,  and  die 

With  no  one  near  save  the  omnipresent  God. 

Verily  so  to  live  was  an  awful  choice,  — 

A  choice  that  wears  the  aspect  of  a  doom  ; 

But  in  the  mould  of  mercy  all  is  cast 

For  Souls  familiar  with  the  Eternal  Voice  ; 

And  this  forgotten  Taper  to  the  last 

Drove  from  itself,  we  trust,  all  frightful  gloom. 


XVII. 

TO  THE  PLANET  VENUS,  AN  EVENING  STAR. 

Composed  at  Loch  Lomond 

Though  joy  attend  thee  orient  at  the  birth 

Of  dawn,  it  cheers  the  lofty  spirit  most 

To  watch  thy  course  when  Day-liglit,  fled  from 

earth, 
In  the  gray  sky  hath  left  his  lingering  Ghost, 
Perplexed  as  if  between  a  splendor  lost 


ling  a  poor  old  woman  in  her  own  hut,  who,  wisliing  to  make  a 
tetum,  said  to  her  daughter,  in  Erse,  in  a  tone  of  plaintive 
samestness,  "  I  woiikl  give  anything  I  have,  but  I  hope  she 
does  not  wish  for  my  Broach !  "  and,  uttering  these  words,  she 
put  her  hand  upon  the  Broach  which  fastened  her  kerchief,  and 
which,  she  imagined,  had  attracted  the  eye  of  her  benefactress 
vor,.  111.  19 


290  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  splendor  slowly  mustering.     Since  the  Sur 
The  absolute,  the  world-absorbing  one, 
Relinquished  half  his  empire  to  the  host 
Emboldened  by  thy  guidance,  holy  Star, 
Holy  as  princely,  who  that  looks  on  thee 
Touching,  as  now,  in  thy  humility, 
The  mountain  borders  of  this  seat  of  care, 
Can  question  that  thy  countenance  is  bright, 
Celestial  Power,  as  much  with  love  as  light  ? 


XVIII. 

BOTIIWELL   CASTLE. 

(Passed  unseen,  on  account  of  stormy  weather.) 

Immured  in  Both  well's  towers,  at  times  the  Brave 

(So  beautiful  is  Clyde)  forgot  to  mourn 

The  liberty  they  lost  at  Bannockburn. 

Once  on  those  steeps  /roamed  at  large,  and  have 

In  mind  the  landscape,  as  if  still  in  sight ; 

The  river  glides,  the  woods  before  me  wave  ; 

Then  why  repine  that  now  in  vain  I  crave 

Needless  renewal  of  an  old  delight  ? 

Better  to  thank  a  dear  and  long-past  day 

For  joy  its  sunny  hours  were  free  to  give 

Than  blauK;  the  present,  that  our  wish  hatii  crossed. 

Memory,  like  sleep,  hath  powers   which  dreams 

obey, 
Di'eams,  vivid  dreams,  that  are  not  fugitive  : 
How  little  that  slici  cherishes  is  lost! 


SONNETS.  291 


XIXo 


PICTURE  OF  DANIEL  IN  THE    LION'S  DEN,    Al    HAMILTON 
PALACE. 

Amid  a  fertile  region  green  with  wood 
And  fresli  with  rivers,  well  did  it  become 
The  ducal  owner,  in  his  palace-home 
To  naturalize  this  tawny  Lion  brood  ; 
Children  of  Art,  that  claim  strange  brothei'hood 
(Couched  in  their  den)   with  those  that  roam   at 

large 
Over  the  burning  wilderness,  and  charge 
The  wind  with  terror  while  they  roar  for  food. 
Satiate  are  these  ;  and  stilled  to  eye  and  ear ; 
Hence,  while  we  gaze,  a  more  enduring  fear ! 
Yet  is  the  Prophet  calm,  nor  would  the  cave 
Daunt  him,  if  his  Companions,  now  bedrowsed, 
Outstretched  and  listless,  were  by  hunger  roused : 
Man  placed  him  here,  and  God,  he  knows,  can  save. 


XX. 

THE  AVON. 

(A  feeder  of  the  Aiinan.) 

A  roN,  —  a  precious,  an  immortal  name  ! 
Yet  is  it  one  that  other  rivulets  bear 
Like  this  unheard  of,  and  their  channels  wear 
Like  this  contented,  though  unknown  to  Fame: 


292  POEJIS   OF   THE  i.aiagination. 

For  gi'eat  and  sacred  is  the  modest  claim 
Of  Streams  to  Nature's  love,  where'er  they  flow ; 
And  ne'er  did  Genius  slight  them,  as  they  go, 
Tree,  flower,  and  green  herb,  feeding  without  blame. 
But  Praise  can  waste  her  voice  on  work  of  tears, 
Anguish,  and  death  :  full  oft,  where  innocent  blood 
Has  mixed  its  current  with  the  limpid  flood. 
Her  heaven-offending  trophies  Glory  rears  : 
Never  for  like  distinction  may  the  good 
Shrink  from  thy  name,  pure  liill,  with  unpleased 
ears. 


XXI. 

BDGGESTED  BY   A    VIEW  FROM  AN  EMINENCE  IN  INGLEWOOD 

FOREST. 

The  forest  huge  of  ancient  Caledon 

Is  but  a  name,  no  more  is  Inglewood, 

That  swept  from  hill  to  hill,  from  flood  to  flood : 

On  her  last  thorn  the  nightly  moon  has  shone  ; 

Yet  still,  though  unappropriate  Wild  be  none, 

Fair  parks  spread  wide  where  Adam  Bell  might 

deign 
With  Clym  o'  the  Clough,  were  they  alive  again . 
To  kill  for  merry  feast  their  venison. 
Nor  wants  the  holy  Abbot's  gliding  Shade 
His  church  with  monumental  wreck  bestrewn; 
The  feudal  Warrior-chief,  a  Ghost  unlaid, 
Hath  still  his  castle,  though  a  skeleton. 
That  he  may  watch  by  night,  and  lessons  con 
Of  power  that  perishes,  and  rights  tiiat  fade. 


SONNETS.  293 

XXII. 

HAKT'S-HORX  TKEE,   NEAK   PEXRITH. 

Here  stood  an  Oak,  that  long  had  borne  affixed 
To  his  huge  ti-unk,  or,  with  more  subtle  art, 
Among  its  withering  topmost  branches  mixed. 
The  palmy  antlers  of  a  hunted  Hart, 
Whom  the  Dog  Hercules  pursued,  —  his  part 
Each  desperately  sustaining,  till  at  last 
Both  sank  and  died,  the  life-veins  of  the  chased 
And  chaser  bursting  here  with  one  dire  smart. 
Mutual  the  victory,  mutual  the  defeat ! 
High  was  the  trophy  hung  with  pitiless  pride , 
Say,  rather,  with  that  generous  sympathy 
That  wants  not,  even  in  rudest  breasts,  a  seat ; 
And,  for  this  feeling's  sake,  let  no  one  chide 
Verse  that  would  guard  thy  memory,  Hart's 
HORN  Tree ! * 


XXIII. 

FANCr  AND   TRADITION. 

The  Lovers  took  within  this  ancient  grove 
Their  last  embrace  ;  beside  those  crystal  springs 
The  Hermit  saw  the  Angel  spread  his  wings 
For  instant  flight ;  the  Sage  in  yon  alcove 

*  See  Note. 


294  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Sat  musing  ;  on  that  hill  the  Bard  would  rove, 
Not  mute,  where  now  the  linnet  only  sings: 
Thus  everywhere  to  truth  Tradition  clings, 
Or  Fancy  localizes  Powers  we  love. 
Were  only  History  licensed  to  take  note 
Of  things  gone  by,  her  meagre  monuments 
Would  ill  suffice  for  persons  and  events  : 
There  is  an  ampler  page  for  man  to  quote, 
A  readier  book  of  manifold  contents, 
Studied  alike  in  palace  and  in  cot. 


xxiy. 

countess'  pillar. 

[On  the  road-side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby,  there  stanos 
a  pillar  with  the  following  inscription:  — 

"  This  pillar  was  erected,  in  the  year  1656,  by  Anne  Count- 
ess Dowager  of  Pembroke,  iSrc,  for  a  memorial  of  her  last  part 
ing  with  her  pious  mother,  Margaret  Countess  Dowager  of 
Cumberland,  on  the  2d  of  April,  1616 ;  in  memory  whereof  she 
hath  left  an  annuity  of  4?.  to  be  distributed  to  the  poor  of  the 
parish  of  Brougham,  every  2d  day  of  April  for  ever,  upon  the 
stone  table  placed  hard  by.     Laus  Deo  1  "J 

While  the  Poor  gather  round,  till  the  end  of  time 
May  this  bright  flower  of  Charity  display 
Its  bloom,  unfolding  at  the  appointed  day  ; 
Flower  than  the  loveliest  of  the  vernal  prime 
Lovelier,  transplanted  from  heaven's  purest  clime  ! 
"  Charity  never  faileth  "  :  on  that  creed, 
More  than  on  written  testament  or  deed. 


SONNETS.  295 

The  pious  Lady  built  with  hope  sublime. 
Alms  on  this  stone  to  be  dealt  out,  for  ever  ! 
"  Laus  Deo."     Many  a  Stranger  passing  by 
Has  with  that  Parting  mixed  a  filial  sigh, 
Blest  its  humane  Memorial's  fond  endeavor ; 
And,  fastening  on  those  lines  an  eye  tear-glazed, 
Has  ended,  though  no  Clerk,  with  "  God  be  praised  I " 


XXV. 

K05IAJJ  ANTIQUITIES. 

(From  the  Roman  Station  at  Old  Penrith.) 

How  profitless  the  relics  that  we  cull, 
TroubUng  the  last  holds  of  ambitious  Rome, 
Unless  they  chasten  fancies  that  presume 
Too  high,  or  idle  agitations  lull ! 
Of  the  world's  flatteries  if  the  brain  be  full. 
To  have  no  seat  for  thought  were  better  doom. 
Like  this  old  helmet,  or  the  eyeless  skull 
Of  him  who  gloried  in  its  nodding  plume. 
Heaven  out  of  vicAv,  our  wishes  what  are  they  ? 
Our  fond  regrets  tenacious  in  their  grasp  ? 
The  Sage's  theory  ?  the  Poet's  lay  ?  — 
Mere  Fibulae  without  a  robe  to  clasp ; 
Obsolete  lamps,  whose  light  no  time  recalls ; 
Urns  without  ashes,  tearless  lachrymals  I 


296  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXVI. 

APOLOGY 

FOR  THE    FOKEGOIXG   POEMS. 

No  more  :  the  end  is  sudden  and  abrupt, 

Abrupt,  as  without  preconceived  design 

Was  the  beginning  ;  jet  the  several  Lays 

Have  moved  in  order,  to  each  other  bound 

Bj  a  continuous  and  acknowledged  tie, 

Though  unapparent,  —  like  those  Shapes  distinct 

That  yet  survive  ensculptured  on  the  walls 

Of  palaces,  or  temples,  'mid  the  wreck 

Of  famed  Persepolis  ;  each  following  each, 

As  might  beseem  a  stately  embassy, 

In  set  array  ;  these  bearing  in  their  hands 

Ensign  of  civil  power,  weapon  of  war, 

Or  gift  to  be  presented  at  the  throne 

Of  the  Great  King ;  and  others,  as  they  go 

In  priestly  vest,  with  holy  offerings  charged, 

Or  leading  victims  drest  for  sacrifice. 

Nor  will  the  Power  we  serve,  that  sacred  Fewer, 

The  Spirit  of  humanity,  disdain 

A  ministration  humble  but  sincere. 

That  from  a  threshold  loved  by  every  Muse 

Its  impulse  took,  —  that  sorrow-stricken  door. 

Whence,  as  a  current  from  its  fountain-head. 

Our  thoughts  have  issued,  and  our  feelings  flowed, 

Receiving,  willingly  or  not,  fresh  strength 

From  kindred  sources  ;  while  around  us  sighed 


SONNETS.  297 

(Life's  three  first  seasons  having  passed  away) 
Leaf-scattering  winds ;  and  hoar-frost  sprinklings 

feU 
(Foretaste  of  winter")  on  the  moorland  heights  ; 
And  every  day  brought  with  it  tidings  new 
Of  rash  change,  ominous  for  the  public  weaL 
Hence,  if  dejection  has  too  oft  encroached 
Upon  that  sweet  and  tender  melancholy 
Which  may  itself  be  cherished  and  caressed 
More  than  enough  ;  a  fault  so  natural 
(Even  with  the  young,  the  hopeful,  or  ttie  gay) 
For  prompt  forgiveness  will  not  sue  in  vain. 


NOTES. 


Page  9. 


The  following  is  extracted  from  the  journal  of  my  lellow- 
trayeller,  to  which,  as  persons  acquainted  with  my  poems  will 
know,  I  have  been  obliged  on  other  occasions :  — 

"Dumfiies,  August,  1803. 
"  On  our  way  to  the  churchj'ard  wliere  Burns  is  buried,  we 
were  accompanied  by  a  boolisellcr,  who  sliowed  us  the  outside 
of  Burns's  house,  where  he  had  lived  the  last  three  years  of  his 
life,  and  where  he  died.  It  has  a  mean  appearance,  and  is  in 
a  by-situation ;  tlie  front  wliitewaslied,  dirty  about  tlie  doors, 
as  most  Scotch  houses  are ;  flowering  plants  in  tlie  window. 
Went  to  visit  his  grave;  he  lies  in  a  corner  of  tlie  churcliyard, 
and  his  second  son,  Francis  Wallace,  beside  him.  There  is  no 
stone  to  mark  the  spot;  but  a  hundred  guineas  have  been  col- 
lected to  be  expended  upon  some  sort  of  monument.  '  There," 
said  the  bookseller,  pointing  to  a  pompous  monument,  '  lies 

ilr. (I  have  forgotten  the  name),  —  a  remarkably  clever 

man;  he  was  an  attorney,  and  scarcely  ever  lost  a  cause  he 
undertook.  Burns  made  many  a  lampoon  upon  him,  and 
there  they  rest  as  you  sec.'  We  looked  at  Burns's  grave  with 
melancholy  and  painful  reflections,  repeating  to  each  other  his 
own  poet's  epitaph :  — 

'  Is  there  a  man,'  &c. 

"  The  churchyard  is  full  of  grave-stones  and  expensive  mon- 
uments, in  all  sorts  of  fantastic  shapes,  —  obelisk-wise,  pillar 
wise,  &c.    When  our  guide  had  left  us,  we  turned  again  to 
Burns's  gi-ave,  and  afterwards  went  to  his  house,  wishing  to 
uiquire  after  Sirs.  Burns,  who  was  gone  to  spend  some  time  '07 


NOTES.  299 

the  sea-shore  with  her  children.  We  spoke  to  the  maid-ser- 
vant at  the  door,  who  invited  us  forward,  and  we  sat  down  in 
the  parlor.  The  walls  were  colored  with  a  blue  wash ;  on  one 
side  of  the  fire  was  a  mahogany  desk;  opposite  the  window  a 
clock,  which  Bui'ns  mentions,  in  one  of  liis  letters,  having  re- 
ceived as  a  present.  The  house  was  cleanly  and  neat  in  the 
inside,  the  stairs  of  stone  scoured  white,  the  kitchen  on  the 
right  side  of  the  passage,  the  parlor  on  the  left.  In  the  room 
above  the  parlor  the  poet  died,  and  his  son,  very  lately,  in  the 
Bame  room.  The  servant  told  us  she  had  lived  four  years  with 
Mrs.  Burns,  who  was  now  in  great  sorrow  for  the  death  of 
Wallace.  She  said  that  Mrs.  Burns's  youngest  son  was  now 
at  Christ's  Hospital.  We  were  glad  to  leave  Dumfries,  where 
we  could  think  of  little  but  poor  Burns,  and  his  moving  about 
on  that  unpoetic  ground.  In  our  road  to  Brownliill,  the  next 
stage,  we  passed  Ellisland,  at  a  little  distance  on  our  right,  — 
his  farm  house.  Our  pleasure  in  looking  round  would  have 
been  still  greater,  if  the  road  had  led  us  nearer  the  spot. 

"  I  cannot  take  leave  of  this  country  wliich  we  passed 
through  to-day,  without  mentioning  that  we  saw  the  Cumber 
land  Mountains  within  half  a  mile  of  Ellisland,  Bi;rns's  house, 
the  last  view  we  had  of  them.  Drayton  has  prettily  described 
the  connection  which  this  neighborhood  has  with  ours,  when 
he  makes  Skiddaw  say : 

'  Scruffel,  from  the  sky 
That  Annandale  doth  crown,  with  a  most  amorous  eye 
Salutes  me  every  day,  or  at  my  pride  looks  gi"ini. 
Oft  threatening  me  with  clouds,  as  I  oft  threaten  him.' 

"  These  lines  came  to  my  brother's  memory,  as  well  as  the 
Cumberland  saying: 

'  If  Skiddaw  hath  a  cap 
Scruffel  wots  well  of  that.' 

"  We  talked  of  Burns,  and  of  the  prospect  he  must  have  had, 
l)erhaps  from  his  own  door,  of  Skiddaw  and  his  companions: 
indulging  ourselves  in  the  fancy  that  we  might  have  been  per- 
sonally known  to  each  other,  and  he  have  looked  upon  those 
Dbjects  with  more  pleasure  for  our  sakes." 


300  NOTES. 

Page  65. 

•*  Jones  !  as  from  Calais  southward." 

(See  Dedication  to  Descriptive  Sketches.) 

This  excellent  person,  one  of  my  earliest  and  dearest  friends, 
died  ill  tlie  year  1835.  We  were  undergraduates  together  of 
tlie  same  year,  at  the  same  college ;  and  companions  in  many 
a  delightful  ramble  tlirough  his  own  romantic  country  of  North 
Wales.  Much  of  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  passed  in  compar- 
ative solitude;  which  I  know  was  often  cheered  by  remem- 
brance of  our  youthful  adventures,  and  of  the  beautiful  regions 
which,  at  home  and  abroad,  we  had  visited  together.  Our 
long  friendship  was  never  subject  to  a  moment's  interruption, 
—  and  while  revising  these  volumes  for  the  last  time,  I  have 
been  so  often  reminded  of  my  loss,  with  a  not  unplcasing  sad- 
ness, that  I  trust  the  reader  will  excuse  this  passing  mention 
of  a  man  who  well  deserves  from  me  something  more  than  so 
brief  a  notice.  Let  me  only  add,  that  during  the  middle  part 
of  his  life  he  resided  many  years  (as  incumbent  of  the  Living) 
at  a  Parsonage  in  Oxfordsliire,  which  is  the  subject  of  tlie 
seventh  of  the  "  Miscellaneous  Sonnets,"  Part  IIL 

Page  68.     Sonnet  vii. 

In  this  and  a  succeeding  sonnet  on  the  same  subject,  let  me 
be  understood  as  a  poet  availing  himself  of  the  situation  which 
tlie  King  of  Sweeden  occupied,  and  of  the  principles  avowed 
IN  iiis  manifestoes;  as  laying  hold  of  these  advantages  for 
the  purpose  of  embodying  moral  truths.  This  remark  might, 
perhaps,  as  well  have  been  suppressed ;  for  to  tliose  who  may 
be  in  sympathy  with  the  course  of  these  Poems,  it  will  be  su 
perfluous ;  and  will,  I  fear,  be  thrown  away  on  that  other  class, 
wliose  besotted  admiration  of  the  into.\icated  despot  hereafter 
placed  in  contrast  with  him  is  tlie  most  melancholy  evidence 
of  degradation  in  British  feehng  and  intellect  which  tlie  time* 
have  furnished. 


NOTES.  301 

Page  82.    Sonnet  xxvii. 
Danger  which  they  fear,  and  honor  which  they  understand  not." 
Words  in  Lord  Brooke's  Life  of  Sir  P.  Sydney. 

Page  95. 

•'  Ziiragoza." 

In  this  sonnet  I  am  under  some  obligations  to  one  of  an  Ital- 
ian autlior,  to  wliom  I  cannot  refer* 

Page  109. 

Tlie  event  is  thus  recorded  in  the  journals  of  the  day:  — 
"  When  the  Austrians  took  Hockheim,  in  one  part  of  the  en- 
gagement they  got  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  whence  they  had 
their  first  view  of  the  Rhine.  They  instantly  halted,  —  not  a 
gun  was  fired,  —  not  a  voice  was  heard ;  they  stood  gazing  on 
the  river  with  those  feelings  which  the  events  of  the  last  fifteen 
years  at  once  called  tip.  Prince  Schwartzenberg  rode  up  to 
know  the  cause  of  this  sudden  stop;  they  then  gave  three 
cheers,  rushed  after  the  enemy,  and  drove  them  into  the 
water." 

Page  125. 

"  Thanksgiving  Ode.'''' 

Wholly  unworthy  of  touching  upon  the  momentous  subject 
here  treated  would  that  Poet  be,  before  whose  eyes  the  present 
distresses  under  which  this  kingdom  labors  could  interpose  a 
veil  sufllciently  thick  to  hide,  or  even  to  obscure,  the  splendor 
of  this  great  moral  triumph.  If  I  have  given  way  to  exulta- 
tion, unchecked  by  these  distresses,  it  might  be  sufficient  to 
protect  me  from  a  charge  of  insensibility,  should  I  state  my 
own  belief  that  the  sufierings  will  be  transitory.  Upon  the 
wisdom  of  a  very  large  majority  of  the  British  nation  rested 
that  generosity  wliich  poured  out  the  treasures  of  this  country 
•or  the  dehverance  of  Europe :  and  in  the  same  national  wis- 


302  NOTES. 

dom,  presiding  in  time  of  peace  ovei-  an  energy  not  inferior  to 
that  which  lias  been  displayed  in  war,  they  confide,  who  en- 
courage a  firm  hope  that  the  cup  of  our  wealth  will  oe  gradu- 
ally replenished.  There  will,  doubtless,  be  no  few  ready  to 
indulge  in  regrets  and  repinings;  and  to  feed  a  morbid  satis- 
faction, by  aggravating  tliese  burdens  in  imagination;  in  order 
that  calamity  so  confidently  prophesied,  as  it  has  not  taken 
the  shape  which  their  sagacity  allotted  to  it,  may  appear  as 
gi-ievous  as  possible  under  another.  But  the  body  of  the  na- 
tion will  not  quarrel  with  the  gain,  because  it  might  have  been 
purchased  at  a  less  price:  and  acknowledging  in  these  sulTer- 
lugs,  which  they  feel  to  have  been  in  a  great  degree  unavoid- 
able, a  consecration  of  their  noble  efforts,  they  will  vigorously 
apply  themselves  to  remedy  the  evil. 

Nor  is  it  at  the  expense  of  rational  patriotism,  or  in  disregard 
of  sound  philosophy,  that  I  have  given  vent  to  feelings  tending 
to  encourage  a  martial  spirit  in  the  bosoms  of  my  countrymen, 
at  a  time  when  there  is  a  general  outcry  against  the  prevalence 
of  these  dispositions.  The  British  army,  both  by  its  skill  and 
valor  in  the  field,  and  by  the  discipline  whicli  rendered  it,  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the  several  countries  where  its  operations 
were  carried  on,  a  protection  from  the  violence  of  their  own 
troops,  has  performed  services  that  will  not  allow  tlie  language 
of  gratitude  and  admiration  to  be  suppressed  or  restrained 
(whatever  be  the  temper  of  the  public  mind)  though  a  scm- 
pulous  dread  lest  the  tribute  due  to  the  past  should  prove  an 
Lijurious  incentive  for  the  future.  Every  man  deserving  the 
name  of  Briton  adds  his  voice  to  the  chorus  which  extols  the 
exploits  of  his  countrymen,  with  a  consciousness,  at  times 
overpowering  the  effort,  that  they  transcend  all  praise.  But 
this  particular  sentiment,  thus  irresistibl}^  e.xcited,  is  not  suf- 
ficient. The  nation  would  err  grievously,  if  she  suflercd  the 
abuse  which  other  states  have  made  of  military  power  to  pre- 
vent her  from  perceiving  that  no  people  ever  was  or  can  be  in- 
dependent, free,  or  secure,  much  less  great,  in  any  sane  appli- 
iation  of  the  word,  without  a  cultivation  of  military  virtues. 
Nor  let  it  be  overlooked,  that  the  benefits  derivable  from  these 
/ourccs  are  placed  within  the  reach  of  Great  Britain,  under 
Kor.ilitions  pccuharly  favorable      The  same  insular  jvi-ition 


NOTES.  303 

which,  by  rendering  ten-itorial  iiicor2:)oration  impossible,  utter- 
IV  precludes  the  idea  of  conquest  under  the  most  seductive 
shape  it  can  assume,  enables  her  to  rely,  for  her  defence  against 
foreign  foes,  chiefly  upon  a  species  of  anned  force  from  which 
her  own  liberties  have  nothing  to  fear.  Such  are  the  privi- 
leges of  her  situation;  and,  by  permitting,  they  in^^te  her  to 
give  way  to  the  courageous  instincts  of  human  nature,  and  to 
strengthen  and  refine  them  by  culture. 

But  some  have  more  than  insinuated  that  a  design  exists  to 
subvert  the  civil  character  of  the  English  people  bj-  unconsti- 
tutional applications  and  unnecessary  increase  of  military 
power.  The  advisers  and  abettors  of  such  a  design,  were  it 
possible  that  it  should  exist,  would  be  guilty  of  the  most  hei- 
nous crime,  which,  upon  tliis  planet,  can  be  committed.  Trust- 
ing that  this  apprehension  arises  from  the  delusive  influences 
of  an  honorable  jealousy,  let  me  hope  that  the  martial  qualities 
wliich  I  venerate  will  be  fostered  by  adhering  to  those  good 
old  usages  wdiich  experience  has  sanctioned;  and  by  availing 
ourselves  of  new  means  of  indisputable  promise:  particularly 
by  applying,  in  its  utmost  possible  extent,  that  system  of  tui 
tion  whose  master-spring  is  a  habit  of  gradually  enlightened 
subordination;  —  by  imparting  knowledge,  civil,  moral,  and 
religious,  in  such  measure  that  the  mind,  among  all  classes  of 
the  community,  may  love,  admire,  and  be  prepared  and  ac- 
complished to  defend,  that  country  under  whose  protection  its 
faculties  have  been  unfolded,  and  its  riches  acquired ;  —  by 
just  dealing  towards  all  orders  of  the  state,  so  that,  no  mem 
bers  of  it  being  trampled  upon,  coui-age  may  everywhere  con 
tinue  to  rest  immovably  upon  its  ancient  English  foundation, 
personal  self-respect;  —  by  adequate  rewai-ds,  and  peiTnaneut 
honors,  conferred  upon  the  deser\-ing;  —  by  encouraging  ath- 
letic exercises  and  manly  sports  among  the  peasantry  of  the 
country ;  —  and  by  especial  care  to  provide  and  support  insti- 
tutions, in  which,  during  a  time  of  peace,  a  reasonable  pro- 
portion of  the  youth  of  the  country  may  be  instructed  in  mili- 
tary science. 

I  have  only  to  add,  that  I  should  feel  little  satisfaction  in 
giving  to  the  world  these  limited  attempts  to  celebrate  the  vir- 
tues of  my  country,  if  I  did  not  encourage  a  hope  that  a  subject, 


304  NOTES. 

which  it  has  fallen  ■within  my  province  to  treat  only  in  the 
mass,  will  by  other  poets  be  illustrated  in  that  detail  which  its 
importance  calls  for,  ami  which  will  allow  opportunities  to  give 
the  merited  applause  to  peksons  as  well  as  to  things. 

The  Ode  was  published  along  with  other  pieces,  now  inter- 
spersed through  these  volumes. 

Page  130. 

"  Discipline  the  rule  whereof  is  passion." 

Lord  Brooke. 

Page  135.     Sonnet  i. 

If  in  this  Sonnet  I  should  seem  to  have  borne  a  little  too  hard 
upon  the  personal  appearance  of  the  worthy  Poissards  of  Calais, 
let  me  take  shelter  under  the  authority  of  my  lamented  friend, 
the  late  Sir  George  Beaumont.  He,  a  most  accurate  observer, 
used  to  say  of  them,  that  their  features  and  countenances 
seemed  to  have  conformed  to  those  of  the  creatures  they  dealt 
•n;  at  all  events,  the  resemblance  was  striking. 

Page  136. 

"  Bruges." 

This  is  not  the  first  poetical  tribute  which  in  our  times  has 
been  paid  to  tliis  beautiful  city.  Mr.  Southey,  in  the  "  Poet's 
Pilgrimage,"  speaks  of  it  in  lines  which  I  cannot  deny  myself 
iLe  pleasure  of  connecting  with  my  own. 

"  Time  hath  not  wronged  her,  nor  hath  ruin  sought 
Rudely  her  splendid  structures  to  destroy, 
Save  in  those  recent  days,  with  evil  fraught, 

When  mutability,  in  drunken  joy 
Triumphant,  and  from  all  restraint  released. 
Let  loose  her  fierce  and  many-headed  beast. 

"  But  for  the  scars  in  that  unhappy  rage 
Inflicted,  firm  she  stands  and  undecayed; 
Like  our  first  Sires,  a  beautiful  old  age 
Is  hers  in  venerable  years  arrayed; 


NOTES.  305 

And  y«t  to  her  benignant  stars  may  bring, 
What  fate  denies  to  man,  —  a  second  spring. 

"  When  I  may  read  of  tilts  in  days  of  old, 

And  tourneys  graced  by  Chieftains  of  renown, 
Fair  dames,  gi-ave  citizens,  and  warriors  bold, 

If  fancy  would  portray  some  stately  town, 
Wliich  for  such  pomp  fit  theatre  should  be. 
Fair  Bruges,  I  shall  then  r'emember  thee." 

In  this  city  are  many  vestiges  of  the  splendor  of  tlie  Bur- 
gnndian  Dukedom,  and  the  long  black  mantle  universally  worn 
by  the  females  is  probably  a  remnant  of  the  old  Spanish  con- 
nection, which,  if  I  do  not  much  deceive  myself,  is  traceable  m 
the  gi'ave  deportment  of  its  inhabitants.  Biiiges  is  compara- 
tively little  disturbed  by  that  curious  contest,  or  rather  con- 
flict, of  Flemish  with  French  propensities  m  matters  of  taste, 
BO  conspicuous  through  other  parts  of  Flanders.  The  hotel  to 
which  we  drove  at  Ghent  furnished  an  odd  instance.  In  the 
passages  were  paintings  and  statues,  after  the  antique,  of  Hebe 
and  Apollo ;  and  in  the  garden,  a  little  pond  about  a  yard  and 
a  half  in  diameter,  with  a  weeping- willow  bending  over  it,  and 
under  the  shade  of  that  tree,  in  the  centre  of  the  pond,  a  wood- 
en paintrd  statue  of  a  Dutch  or  Flemish  boor,  looking  ineffably 
tender  upon  his  mistress,  and  embracing  her.  A  living  duck, 
tethered  at  the  feet  of  the  sculptured  lovers,  alternately  tor- 
mented a,  miserable  eel  and  itself  with  endeavors  to  escape 
from  its  bonds  and  prison.  Had  we  chanced  to  espy  the  host- 
ess of  the  hotel  in  this  quaint  rural  retreat,  the  exliibition 
would  have  been  complete.  She  was  a  true  Flemish  figure, 
in  the  dress  of  the  days  of  Holbein;  her  symbol  of  office,  a 
weighty  bunch  of  keys,  pendent  from  her  portly  waist.  In 
Brussels,  the  modem  taste  in  costume,  architecture,  &c.  has 
got  the  mastery;  in  Ghent  there  is  a  struggle:  but  in  Bruges 
tild  images  are  still  paramount,  and  an  air  of  monastic  life 
among  the  quiet  goings-on  of  a  thinh'-peopled  city  is  inexpres- 
sibly soo'Wng;  a  pensive  gi-ace  seems  to  be  cast  over  all,  even 
ftie  very  children.  —  Extract  from  Journal. 

VOL.  m.  20 


S06  NOTES. 

Page  141. 

"  Wliere  unremiltbif/ frosts  the  rochj  crescent  bleach." 

"  Let  a  wall  of  rocks  be  imagined  fi-om  three  to  six  hundred 
feet  in  height,  and  rising  between  France  and  Spain,  so  as 
physically  to  separate  the  two  kingdoms ;  let  us  fancy  this 
wall  curved  like  a  crescent,  with  its  convexity  towards  France. 
Lastly,  let  us  suppose  that  in  the  veiy  middle  of  the  wall  a 
bi-each  of  300  feet  wide  has  been  beaten  down  by  the  famous 
Roland,  and  we  may  have  a  good  idea  of  what  the  mountaineers 
call  the  '  Bkeciie  de  Eol^vnd.'  "  — Raymond's  Pyrenees. 

Page  143. 

"  ARserere  Domine" 

&ee  the  beautiful  song,  in  Jlr.  Coleridge's  Tragedy,  "  The 
Remoi-se."     Why  is  the  harp  of  Quantock  silent? 

Page  144. 

"  Not.,  like  his  (jreat  Compeers,  indignantly 
Doth  Danube  spring  to  life  !  " 

Before  this  quarter  of  the  Black  Forest  was  inhabited,  the 
source  of  the  Danube  might  have  suggested  some  of  those 
sublime  images  which  Armstrong  has  so  finely  described;  at 
present,  the  contrast  is  most  striking.  The  Spring  appeai-s  in 
a  capacious  stone  basin  in  front  of  a  ducal  palace,  with  a 
pleasure-ground  opposite;  then,  passing  under  the  pavement, 
takes  the  form  of  a  little,  clear,  bright,  black,  vigorous  rill, 
barely  wide  enough  to  tempt  the  agility  of  a  child  five  years 
old  to  leap  over  it;  and  entering  the  garden,  it  joins,  after  a 
course  of  a  few  hundred  yards,  a  stream  much  more  consider- 
able than  itself.  The  cqi)iousness  of  the  spring  at  Doneschingen 
must  have  procured  for  it  the  honor  of  being  named  the  Source 
if  the  Danube. 

Page  145. 

'  The  Staub-bach  "  is  a  narrow  stream,  which,  after  a  long 
Bourse  on  the  heights,  comes  to  the  sharp  edge  of  a  somewhat 


NOTES.  307 

overhanging  precipice,  overleaps  it  witli  a  bound,  and,  after  a 
fall  of  930  feet,  forms  again  a  rivulet.  The  vocal  powers  of 
these  musical  Beggars  mav  seem  to  be  exaggerated;  but  this 
wild  and  savage  air  was  utterly  unlike  any  sounds  I  had  ever 
heard;  the  notes  reached  me  from  a  distance,  and  on  what 
occasion  they  were  sung  I  could  not  guess;  only  they  seemed 
to  belong,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  the  Waterfall,  —  and  re- 
■ninded  me  of  religious  ser\'iccs  chanted  to  Streams  and  Foun- 
tains in  Pagiui  times.  Mr.  Southey  has  thus  accurately  char 
acterized  the  peculiarity  of  this  music :  "  While  we  were  at 
the  Waterfall,  some  half-score  peasants,  chiefly  women  and 
girls,  assembled  just  out  of  reach  of  the  Spring,  and  set  up  — 
surely,  the  wildest  chorus  that  ever  was  heard  by  human  ears 
—  a  song  not  of  articulate  sounds,  but  in  which  the  voice  was 
used  as  a  mere  instrument  of  music,, more  flexible  than  any 
which  art  could  produce,  —  sweet,  powerful,  and  thrilling 
beyond  description."  —  See  Notes  to  "  A  Tale  of  Paraguay." 

Page  146. 

"  Engelherg." 

The  Convent  whose  site  was  pointed  out,  according  to  tra- 
dition, in  this  manner,  is  seated  at  its  base.  The  architecture 
of  the  building  is  unimpressive,  but  the  situation  is  worthy  of 
the  honor  which  the  imagination  of  the  mountaineers  has  con- 
ferred upon  it. 

Page  163. 

'■'■Though  searching  damps  and  ■many  an  envious Jiaw 
Have  marred  this  zcork." 

This  picture  of  the  Last  Supper  has  not  onh'  been  grievous- 
ly injured  by  time,  but  the  greatest  part  of  it,  if  not  the  whole, 
is  said  to  have  been  '•etouched,  or  painted  over  again.  These 
niceties  may  be  left  to  connoisseurs,  —  I  speak  of  it  as  I  felt. 
The  copy  exhibited  in  London  some  years  ago,  and  the  en- 
graving by  Merghen,  are  both  admirable;  but  in  the  original 
is  a  power  which  neither  of  those  works  has  attained,  or  ever 
»j  nroached. 


308 


NOTES. 


Page  166. 

"  Qfjigures  human  and  divine." 

The  Statues  ranged  i-ound  the  spire  and  along  the  roof  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Jlilau  have  been  found  fault  with  by  persons 
whose  exclusive  taste  is  unfortunate  for  themselves.  It  is  true 
that  the  same  expense  and  labor,  judiciously  directed  to  pur- 
poses more  strictly  architectural,  might  have  much  heightened 
the  general  effect  of  the  building;  for,  seen  from  the  ground, 
the  Statues  appear  diminutive.  But  the  coup-d'ceil,  from  the 
best  point  of  view,  which  is  half-way  up  the  spire,  must  strike 
an  unprejudiced  person  with  admiration ;  and  surely  the  se- 
lection and  arrangement  of  the  Figures  is  exquisitely  fitted  to 
support  the  religion  of  the  country  in  the  imaginations  and 
feelings  of  the  spectator.  It  was  with  great  pleasure  that  I 
saw,  during  the  two  ascents  which  we  made,  several  children, 
of  different  ages,  tripping  up  and  down  the  slender  spu-e,  and 
pausing  to  look  around  them,  with  feelings  much  more  ani- 
mated than  could  have  been  derived  from  these  or  the  finest 
works  of  art,  if  placed  within  easy  reach.  —  Remember  also 
that  you  have  the  Alps  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the  Ap- 
ennines, with  the  plain  of  Lombardy  between! 

Page  176. 

"  ISaU,  with  those  white-robed  Shapes,  —  a  living  Stream, — 
The  glacier  Pillars  join  in  solemn  guise." 

This  Procession  is  a  part  of  the  sacramental  service  per- 
formed once  a  month.  In  the  valley  of  Engelberg  we  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  present  at  the  Grand  Festival  of  the  Virgin. 
—  but  the  Procession  on  that  day,  though  consisting  of  up-- 
wards  of  1,000  persons,  assembled  from  all  the  branches  of  the 
sequestered  valley,  was  much  less  striking  (notwithstanding 
the  sublimity  of  the  surrounding  scenery):  it  wanted  both  the 
simplicity  of  the  other  and  the  accompaniment  of  the  Gla- 
3ier  columns,  whose  sisterly  resemblance  to  the  moving  Fig- 
ires  gave  it  a  most  beautiful  and  solemn  peculiarity. 


NOTliS.  309 

Page  182.     Sonnet  xxxv. 

Near  the  town  of  Boulogne,  and  overhanging  the  beach,  are 
the  remains  of  a  tower  which  bears  the  name  of  Caligula,  who 
here  terminated  his  western  expedition,  of  which  these  sea- 
Bhells  were  the  boasted  spoils.  And  at  no  great  distance  from 
these  ruins,  Bonaparte,  standing  upon  a  mound  of  earth, 
harangued  his  "  Army  of  England,"  reminding  them  of  the 
exploits  of  Cajsar,  and  pointing  towards  the  white  cliffs,  upon 
which  their  standards  were  to  float.  He  recommended  also 
a  subscription  to  be  raised  among  the  Soldiery  to  erect  on  that 
ground,  in  memory  of  the  foundation  of  the  "  Legion  of  Hon- 
or," a  Column,  —  wliich  was  not  completed  at  the  time  wo 
were  there. 

Page  183. 

"  We  mark  majestic  herds  of  cattle,  free 
To  ruminate." 

This  is  a  most  grateful  sight  for  an  Englishman  returning  to 
-is  native  land.  Everywhere  one  misses,  in  the  cultivated 
grounds  abroad,  the  animated  and  soothing  accompaniment  of 
animals  ranging  and  selecting  their  own  food  at  will. 

Page  186. 

"  Far  as  St.  Maurice,  from  yon  eastern  Forks." 

Les  Fourches,  the  point  at  which  the  two  chains  of  moun- 
tains part  that  inclose  the  Valais,  which  terminates  at  St. 
Maukice. 

Page  186. 

"  Ye  tJiat  occupy 
Tour  council-seats  heneatli  the  open  sky, 
On  Sarnen's  Mount.'" 

Sarnen,  one  of  the  two  capitals  of  the  Canton  of  Underwal ■■ 
den;  the  spot  here  alluded  to  is  close  to  the  town,  and  is  called 
the  Landenberg,  from  the  tyrant  of  that  name,  whose  chateau 
formerly  stood  there.     On  the  1st  of  January.  1308,  the  greal 


310  \OTES. 

day  which  the  confederated  Heroes  had  chosen  for  tlie  delivar- 
ince  of  their  country,  all  the  castles  of  the  Governors  were 
taken  by  force  or  stratagem;  and  the  Tyrants  themselves 
conducted,  with  their  creatures,  to  the  frontiers,  after  havinj; 
witnessed  the  destruction  of  their  strong-holds.  From  that 
time  the  Landenberg  has  been  the  place  where  the  Legislator 
of  this  division  of  the  Canton  assemble.  The  site,  which  is 
well  described  by  Ebel,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  Swit 
zerland. 

Page  187. 

"  Calk  me  to  pace  her  honored  Bridtje." 

The  bridges  of  Lucerne  are  roofed,  and  open  at  the  sides,  so 
that  the  passenger  has,  at  the  same  time,  the  benefit  of  shade, 
and  a  view  of  the  magnificent  country.  The  pictures  are 
attached  to  the  rafters ;  those  from  Scripture  History,  on  the 
Cathedral  Bridge,  amount,  according  to  my  notes,  to  240. 
Subjects  from  the  Old  Testament  face  th.e  passenger  as  he  goes 
towards  the  Cathedral,  and  those  from  the  New  as  he  return.*. 
The  pictures  on  these  bridges,  as  well  as  those  in  most  other 
parts  of  Switzerland,  are  not  to  be  spoken  of  as  works  of  art; 
but  they  are  instruments  admirably  answering  the  purpose  for 
which  they  were  designed. 

Page  192. 

"Allhonr/h  'tis /air, 
'  Twill  be  another  Yarrow." 

These  wordfi  were  quoted  to  me  from  "  Yarrow  Unvisited," 
by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  when  I  visited  him  at  Abbotsford,  a  day 
or  two  before  his  departure  for  Italy:  and  the  affecting  condi- 
tion in  which  he  was  when  he  looked  upon  Rome  from  the 
Janicular  ilount,  was  reported  to  me  by  a  lady  who  had  the 
'aonor  of  conducting  him  thither. 

Page  198. 
"  nis  sepulchral  verse." 
If  any  Eng'-eh  reader  should  be  desirous  of  knowing  how  fa» 


NOTES.  311 

i  am  justified  in  thus  describing  tbe  epitaphs  of  Chiabrera,  he 
will  find  translated  specimens  of  them  in  the  fifth  volume,  under 
the  head  of  "  Epitaphs  and  Elegiac  P  leces." 

Page  203. 

"Aquaj)etidente." 

It  would  be  ungenerous  not  to  advert  to  the  religious  move 
meat  that,  since  the  composition  of  these  verses  in  1837,  has 
made  itself  felt,  more  or  less  stronglj-,  throughout  the  English 
Church;  —  a  movement  that  takes,  for  its  first  principle,  a  de- 
vout deference  to  the  voice  of  Christian  antiquity.  It  is  not 
my  oflJce  to  pass  judgment  on  questions  of  theological  detail ; 
but  my  own  repugnance  to  the  spirit  and  system  of  Eomanism 
has  been  so  repeatedly  and,  I  tmst,  feelingly  expressed,  that  I 
shall  not  be  suspected  of  a  leaning  that  way,  if  I  do  not  join  in 
the  gi-ave  charge,  thrown  out,  perhaps,  in  the  heat  of  contro 
versj',  against  the  learned  and  pious  men  to  whose  labors  I 
all-ade.  I  speak  apart  from  controversy;  but,  with  strong 
faith  in  the  moral  temper  which  would  elevate  the  present  by 
domg  reverence  to  the  past,  I  would  draw  cheerful  auguries  for 
the  English  Church  from  this  movement,  as  likeiy  to  restore 
among  us  a  tone  of  piety  more  earnest  and  real  than  that 
produced  by  the  mere  formalities  of  the  understanding,  refus- 
ing, in  a  degree  which  I  cannot  but  lament,  that  its  own  tem- 
per and  judgment  shall  be  controlled  by  those  of  antiquity. 

Page  203. 

Within  a  couple  of  hours  of  my  arrival  at  Rome,  I  saw  from 
Monte  Pincio  the  Pine-tree,  as  described  in  the  Sonnet;  and, 
while  expressing  admiration  at  the  beauty  of  its  appearance,  I 
was  told  by  an  acquaintance  of  my  fellow-traveller,  who  hap- 
pened to  johi  us  at  the  moment,  that  a  price  had  been  paid 
.•or  it  by  the  lat?  Sir  G.  Beaumont,  upon  condition  that  the 
proprietor  should  lot  act  upon  his  known  intention  of  cutting 
t  down. 


312  NOTES. 

Page  215. 
"CamaUloli." 

This  famous  sanctuary  was  the  original  establishment  of 
Saint  Eomualdo  (or  Eumwald,  as  our  ancestors  Saxonized 
the  name)  in  the  eleventh  century,  the  ground  (campo)  being 
given  by  a  Count  Maldo.  The  Camaldolensi,  however,  have 
spread  wide  as  a  branch  of  Benedictines,  and  may  therefore  be 
classed  among  the  gentlemen  of  the  monastic  orders.  The  So- 
ciety comprehends  two  orders,  monks  and  hermits;  sj-mbol- 
ized  by  their  arms,  two  doves  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup. 
The  monastery  in  which  the  monks  here  reside  is  beautifully 
situated,  but  a  large,  unattractive  edifice,  not  unlike  a  factory. 
The  hermitage  is  placed  in  a  loftier  and  wider  region  of  the 
forest.  It  comprehends  between  20  and  30  distinct  residences, 
each  including  for  its  single  hermit  an  inclosed  piece  of  ground 
and  three  very  small  apartments.  There  are  days  of  indul 
gence  when  the  hermit  may  quit  his  cell,  and  when  old  age 
arrives,  he  descends  from  the  mountain  and  takes  his  abode 
among  the  monks. 

My  companion  had,  in  the  year  1831,  fallen  in  with  the 
monk,  the  subject  of  these  two  sonnets,  who  showed  him  his 
abode  among  the  hermits.  It  is  from  him  tliat  I  received  the 
following  particulars.  He  was  then  about  40  j-ears  of  age,  but 
his  appearance  was  that  of  an  older  man.  He  had  been  a  paint- 
er by  profession,  but  on  taking  orders  changed  his  name  from 
Santi  to  Raffaello,  perhaps  with  an  unconscious  reference  as 
well  to  the  great  Sanzio  d'  Urbino  as  to  the  archangel.  He 
assured  my  friend  that  he  had  been  13  years  in  the  hermitage 
and  had  never  known  melancholy  or  ennui.  In  the  little  re- 
cess for  study  and  prayer,  there  was  a  small  collection  of  books. 
"I  read  only,"  said  he,  "  books  of  asceticism  and  mystical  tlie- 
ology."  On  being  asked  the  names  of  the  most  famous  mys- 
tics, he  enumerated  ScarainelU,  San  Giovanni  ddla  Croce, 
Saint  Diomjsius  the  Areojniijite  (supposing  the  work  which 
bears  his  name  to  be  really  his),  and  with  peculiar  empliasis 
Ricardo  di  San  Vittori.  The  works  of  Saint  Theresa  are  also 
in  high  repute  among  ascetics.  These  names  may  interesj 
lome  of  my  readers. 


NOTES.  313 

We  heard  that  Raffaello  was  then  living  in  the  convent;  mj 
friend  sought  in  vain  to  renew  his  acquaintance  witli  him.  It 
ivas  probably  a  day  of  seclusion.  The  reader  will  perceive 
that  these  sonnets  were  supposed  to  be  written  when  he  was  a 
young  man. 

Page  217. 
"  What  aim  had  they,  (he  pair  of  Monks  " 

Injustice  to  the  Benedictines  of  Camaldoli,  by  wliom  strau 
gers  are  so  hospitably  entertained,  I  feel  obliged  to  notice,  that 
I  saw  among  them  no  other  figures  at  all  resembling,  in  size  or 
complexion,  the  two  Monks  described  in  this  Sonnet.  'Wliat 
was  their  office,  or  the  motive  which  brought  them  to  this 
place  of  mortification,  which  they  could  not  have  approached 
without  being  carried  in  this  or  some  other  way,  a  feeling  of 
delicacy  prevented  me  from  inquiring.  An  account  has  be 
fore  been  given  of  the  hermitage  they  were  about  to  enter.  It 
was  visited  by  us  towards  the  end  of  the  month  of  Jlay;  yet 
snow  was  lying  thick  under  the  pine-trees,  within  a  few  yards 
of  the  gate. 

Page  218. 

''At  Valbmbrosa." 

The  name  of  Slilton  is  pleasingly  connected  with  Vallom 
brosa  in  many  ways.  The  pride  with  which  the  Monk,  with- 
out any  previous  question  from  me,  pointed  out  his  residence, 
I  shall  not  readily  forget.  It  maj'  be  proper  here  to  defend 
the  Poet  from  a  charge  which  has  been  brought  against  him, 
in  respect  to  the  passage  in  "  Paradise  Lost  "  whei'e  this  place 
is  mentioned.  It  is  said,  that  he  has  erred  in  speaking  of  the 
trees  there  being  deciduous,  whereas  they  are,  in  fact,  pines. 
The  fault-finders  are  themselves  mistaken ,  the  natural  woods 
of  the  region  of  Vallombi'osa  are  deciduous,  and  spread  to  a 
preat  extent;  those  near  the  convent  are,  indeed,  mostly  pines; 
but  they  are  avenues  of  trees  planted  within  a  few  steps  of 
»ach  other,  and  thus  composing  large  tracts  of  wood;  plots  of 
which  are  periodically  cut  down.     The  appearance  of  those 


514  NOTES 

narrow  avenues,  upon  steep  slopes  open  to  the  sky,  on  account 
of  the  height  which  the  trees  attain  by  being  forced  to  grow 
upwards,  is  often  very  impressive.  Jly  guide,  a  boy  of  about 
fourteen  years  old,  pointed  this  out  to  me  in  several  places. 

Page  227. 

"  More  high,  the  Dacian  force. 
To  hoof  and  fnger  mailed.'''' 

Here  and  infra,  see  Forsyth. 

Page  246. 

"  The  River  Duddon:' 

A  Poet  whose  works  are  not  j-et  known  as  they  deserve  tc 
be,  thus  enters  upon  his  description  of  the  "  Ruins  of  Rome  " ; 

"  The  rising  Sun 
Flames  on  the  ruins  in  the  purer  air 
Towering  aloft"; 

itnd  ends  thus : 

"  The  setting  Sun  displays 
His  visible  great  round,  between  yon  towers, 
As  through  two  shady  cliffs." 

.Mr.  Crowe,  in  his  excellent  loco-descriptive  Poem,  "  Lewes  , 
don  Hill,"  is  still  more  expeditious,  finishing  the  whole  on  a 
Maj'-raorniiig,  l^efore  breakfast. 

"  To-morrow  for  severer  thought,  but  now 
To  breakfast,  and  keep  festival  to-day." 

No  one  believes,  or  is  desired  to  believe,  th.at  those  Poems 
wer3  actually  composed  within  such  limits  of  time ;  nor  was 
therj  an}'  I'cason  why  a  prose  statement  should  acquaint  the 
ReaAlsr  with  the  plain  fact,  to  the  disturbance  of  poetic  credi- 
bility. But,  in  the  present  case,  I  am  compelled  to  mention, 
that  the  above  series  of  Sonnets  was  the  growth  of  many  j-ears ; 
—  the  one  which  stands  the  14th  was  the  first  produced;  and 
others  were  added  upon  occasional  visits  to  the  Stream,  or  as 
recoiloctioni'  of  the  scenes  upon  its  banks  awakened  a  wish  to 


XOTES.  315 

describe  them.  In  tliis  manner  I  hnd  proceeded  insensibly, 
d-ithout  perceiving  that  I  was  trespassing  upon  gi-ound  pre- 
>ccupied,  at  least  as  far  as  intention  went,  bj*  Jlr.  Coleridge; 
who,  more  than  twenty  j-ears  ago,  used  to  speak  of  writing  a 
rural  Poem  to  be  entitled  "  The  Brook,"  of  which  he  has  given 
a  sketch  in  a  recent  publication.  But  a  particular  subject 
■jannot,  I  think,  much  interfere  with  a  general  one;  and  I  have 
Deeii  further  kept  from  encroaching  upon  any  right  llr.  C. 
may  still  wish  to  exercise,  by  the  restriction  which  the  frame 
of  the  Sonnet  imposed  upon  me,  narrowing  unavoidably  the 
range  of  thought,  and  precluding,  though  not  without  its  ad- 
vantages, many  gi-aces  to  which  a  freer  movement  of  verse 
would  naturally  have  led. 

.May  I  not  venture,  then,  to  hope,  that,  instead  of  being  a 
hindrance,  by  anticipation  of  any  part  of  the  subject,  these 
Sonnets  may  remind  Mr.  Coleridge  of  his  own  more  compre- 
hensive design,  and  induce  him  to  fulfil  it? There  is  a 

sympathy  in  streams,  —  "one  calleth  to  another" ;  and  I  would 
gladly  believe  that  "  The  Brook  "  will,  erelong,  munuur  in 
concert  with  "  The  Duddon."  But,  asking  pardon  for  this 
fancy,  I  need  not  scruple  to  say,  that  those  verses  must  indeed 
be  ill-fated  which  can  enter  upon  such  pleasant  walks  of  na 
ture,  without  receiving  and  giving  inspiration.  The  power  ot 
waters  over  the  minds  of  Poets  has  been  acknowledged  from 
the  earliest  ages;  —  through  the  "  Flumina  anem  sylvasque 
ingiorius  "  of  Virgil,  down  to  the  sublime  apostrophe  to  the 
great  rivers  of  the  earth,  by  Armstrong,  and  the  simple  ejacu- 
lation of  Burns,  (chosen,  if  I  recollect  right,  by  ^Ir.  Coleridj^e, 
IS  a  motto  for  his  embryo  "  Brook,") 

"  The  JIuse  nae  Poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himseP  he  learned  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander, 
And  na'  think  lang." 

Page  252. 

'■^  There  bloomed  the  strawbern/  of  the  mldemess  ; 
The  irenMing  eyebriyht  showed  her  sapphire  blue." 

These  two  lines  are  in  a  gi'eat  measure  taken  from  •'  Th« 


316  NOTES. 

Beauties  of  Spring,  a  Juvenile  Poem,"  by  the  Rev.  Josepii 
Syinpson.  He  was  a  native  of  Cumberland,  and  was  educated 
ill  tlie  vale  of  Grasmere,  and  at  Hawkslicad  scliool:  liis  poems 
are  little  known,  but  they  contain  passages  of  splendid  de- 
Bcription;  and  the  versification  of  his  "  Vision  of  Alfred"  is 
harmonious  ami  animated.  In  describing  the  motions  of  the 
Sylphs,  that  constitute  the  strange  machinery  of  his  Poem,  he 
uses  the  following  illustrative  simile:  — 

''  Glancing  from  their  phimes, 
A  changeful  light  the  azure  vault  illumes. 
Less  varying  hues  beneath  the  I'ole  adorn 
The  streamy  glories  of  the  Boreal  morn, 
That,  wavering  to  and  fro,  their  radiance  shed 
On  Bothnia's  gulf  with  glassy  ice  o'erspread, 
Where  the  lone  native,  as  he  homeward  glides 
On  polished  sandals  o'er  the  imprisoned  tides, 
And  still  the  balance  of  his  frame  preserves, 
Wheeled  on  alternate  foot  in  lengthening  curves, 
Sees  at  a  glance,  above  him  and  below. 
Two  rival  heavens  with  equal  splendor  glow. 
Sphered  in  the  centre  of  the  world  he  seems; 
For  all  around  with  soft  eflulgence  gleams; 
Stars,  moons,  and  meteors,  ray  opposed  to  ray. 
And  solemn  midnight  pours  the  blaze  of  day." 

He  was  a  man  of  ardent  feeling,  and  his  faculties  of  mind, 
particularly  his  memory,  were  extraordinary.  Brief  notices  of 
his  life  ought  to  find  a  place  in  the  History  of  Westmoreland. 

Pages  259,  260.     Soimets  xvti.  and  .win. 

The  Eagle  requires  a  large  domain  for  its  support;  but 
several  pairs,  not  many  years  ago,  were  constantly  resident  in 
this  country,  building  their  nests  in  the  steeps  of  Borrowdale, 
Wastdale,  Knnerdale,  and  on  the  eastern  side  of  Ilelvellyn. 
Often  iuive  I  heard  anglers  speak  of  the  grandeur  of  their  ap- 
pearance, as  they  hovered  over  Red  Tarn,  in  one  of  the  coves 
of  this  mountain.  The  bird  frequently  returns,  but  is  always 
destroyed.     Not  long  since,  one  visited   Rydal  Lake,  Mml  ro 


NOTES.  317 

aaained  some  hours  near  its  banks:  the  consternation  which  it 
occasioned  among  the  different  species  of  fowl,  particularly 
the  herons,  was  expressed  by  loud  screams.  The  horse  also  is 
naturally  afraid  of  the  eagle.  —  There  were  several  Roman  sta- 
tions among  these  mountains;  the  most  considerable  seems  to 
have  been  in  a  meadow  at  the  head  of  Windermere,  Established, 
undoubtedly,  as  a  check  over  the  Passes  of  Kirkstone,  Dun- 
mailraise,  and  of  Hardknot  and  Wrynose.  On  the  margin  of 
Rydal  Lake,  a  coin  of  Trajan  was  discovered  very  lately.  — 
The  Roman  P\)rt  here  alluded  to,  culled  by  the  country  peo- 
ple "  Ilardknot  Castle,"  is  most  impressively  situated  half-way 
down  the  hill  on  the  right  of  the  road  that  descends  from  Hard- 
knot  into  Eskdale.  It  has  escaped  the  notice  of  most  antiqua^ 
rians,  and  is  but  slightly  mentioned  by  Lysons.  The  Dkuid- 
ICAL  Circle  is  about  half  a  mile  to  the  left  of  the  road  ascend- 
ing Stone-side  from  the  vale  of  Duddon:  the  country  people 
call  it  ''Sunken  Church:' 

The  reader  who  may  have  been  interested  in  the  foregoing 
Sonnets,  (which  together  may  be  considered  as  a  Poem,)  will 
not  be  displeased  to  find  in  this  place  a  prose  account  of  the 
Duddon,  extracted  from  Green's  comprehensive  Guide  to  the 
Lakes,  lately  published :  —  "  The  road  leading  from  Coniston  to 
Broughton  is  over  high  gi-ound,  and  commands  a  view  of  the 
River  Duddon;  which,  at  high  water,  is  a  grand  sight,  having 
the  beautiful  and  fertile  lands  of  Lancashire  and  Cumberland 
stretching  each  way  from  its  margin.  Li  this  extensive  view, 
the  face  of  nature  is  displayed  in  a  wonderful  varietj'  of  hill 
and  dale;  wooded  grounds  and  buildings;  amongst  the  latter, 
Broughton  Tower,  seated  on  the  crown  of  a  hill,  rising  elegant- 
ly from  the  valley,  is  an  object  of  extraordinary  interest.  Fer- 
tility on  each  side  is  gradually  diminished,  and  lost  in  the  su- 
perior heights  of  Blackcomb,  in  Cumberland,  and  the  high  laiuls 
between  Kirk  by  and  Ul  vers  tone. 

"  The  road  fronr  Broughton  to  Seathwaite  is  on  the  banks 
nf  the  Duddon,  and  on  its  Lancashire  side  it  is  of  various  ele- 
vations. The  river  is  an  amusing  companion,  one  while  brawl- 
ing and  tumbling  over  rocky  precipices,  until  the  agitated 
water  becomes  again  calm  by  arriving  at  a  smoother  and  less 
■rei'ipitous  bed;  ^mt  its  course  is  soon  again  nifHed,  and  th« 


318  NOTES. 

current  thrown  into  every  variety  of  foam  which  the  i"ocky 
channel  of  a  river  can  give  to  water."  —  Vide  Greenes  Guide  to 
Ike  Lakes,  Vol.  I.  pp.  98  - 100. 

After  all,  the  traveller  would  be  most  gi-atified  who  should 
approach  this  beautiful  Stream,  neither  at  its  source,  as  is  done 
in  the  Sonnets,  nor  from  its  termination;  but  from  Coniston 
over  Walna  Scar;  first  descending  into  a  little  circular  valley, 
a  collateral  compartment  of  the  long  winding  vale  through 
which  flows  the  Duddon.  This  recess,  towards  the  close  of 
September,  when  the  after-grass  of  the  meadows  is  still  of  a 
fiesh  green,  with  the  leaves  of  many  of  the  trees  faded,  but 
perhaps  none  fallen,  is  truly  enchanting.  At  a  point  elevated 
enough  to  show  the  various  objects  in  the  valley,  and  not  so 
high  as  to  diminish  their  importance,  the  stranger  will  instinct- 
ively halt.  On  the  foreground,  a  little  below  the  most  favor- 
able station,  a  rude  footbridge  is  thrown  over  the  bed  of  the 
noisy  brook  foaming  by  the  waj'-side.  Russet  and  craggy 
hills,  of  bold  and  varied  outline,  surround  the  level  valley, 
which  is  besprinkled  with  gray  rocks  plumed  with  birch-trees. 
A  few  homesteads  are  interspersed,  in  some  j)laces  peeping  out 
from  among  the  rocks  like  hermitages,  whose  site  has  been 
chosen  for  the  benefit  of  sunshine  as  well  as  shelter;  in  other 
instances,  the  dwelling-house,  barn,  and  byre  compose  to- 
gether a  cruciform  structure,  wliich,  with  its  embowering 
trees,  and  the  ivy  clothing  part  of  the  walls  and  roof  like  a 
fleece,  calls  to  mind  the  remains  of  an  ancient  abbey.  Time, 
in  most  cases,  and  nature  everywhere,  have  given  a  sanctity 
*o  the  humble  works  of  man,  that  are  scattered  over  tliis  peace- 
ful retirement.  Hence  a  harmony  of  tone  and  color,  a  coiisum  - 
mation  and  perfection  of  beauty,  which  would  have  been 
marred  had  aim  or  purpose  interfered  with  the  coui-se  of  con- 
venience, utility,  or  necessity.  This  unvitiated  region  stands 
ill  no  need  of  the  veil  of  twilight  to  soften  or  disguise  its  fea- 
tures. As  it  glistens  in  the  morning  sunshine,  it  would  fill  the 
spectator's  iieart  with  gladsomeness.  Looking  from  our  chosen 
.Nation,  he  would  feel  an  impatience  to  rove  among  its  path- 
H-ays,  to  be  greeted  by  the  milkmaid,  to  wander  from  house  to 
house,  exchanging  "  good  morrows"  as  he  passed  the  open 
ioors;  but  at  evening,  when  the  sun  is  set,  and  a  pearly  liglit 


NOTES.  319 

gleams  from  the  western  quarter  of  the  sky,  with  an  answering 
liglit  from  the  smooth  siu-face  of  tlie  meadows ;  when  the  trees 
are  dusky,  but  each  kmd  still  distinguishable ;  when  the  cool 
air  has  coudensed  the  blue  smoke  rising  from  the  cottage 
chimneys ;  when  the  dark  mossy  stones  seem  to  sleep  in  the 
bed  of  the  foaming  brook; — <7ien,  he  would  be  unwilling  to 
move  forward,  not  less  from  a  reluctance  to  relinquish  what 
he  beholds,  than  from  an  apprehension  of  disturbing,  b}'  his 
approach,  the  quietness  beneath  him.  Issuing  from  the  plain 
of  this  valley,  the  brook  descends  in  a  rapid  torrent,  passing  by 
the  churchyard  of  Seathv.'aite.  The  traveller  is  thus  conduct 
ed  at  once  into  the  midst  of  the  wild  and  beautiful  scenery 
which  gave  occasion  to  the  Sonnets  from  the  14th  to  the  2Qth 
inclusive.  From  the  point  where  the  Seathwaite  brook  johis 
the  Duddon,  is  a  view  upwards,  into  the  pass  through  which 
the  river  makes  its  way  into  the  plain  of  Donnerdale.  The 
perpendicular  rock  on  the  right  bears  the  ancient  British  name 
of  The  Pen  ;  the  one  opposite  is  called  Walla-barkow  Ckag, 
a  name  that  occurs  in  other  places  to  designate  rocks  of  th« 
same  character.  The  chaotic  aspect  of  the  scene  is  well 
marked  by  the  expression  of  a  stranger,  who  strolled  out  while 
dinner  was  preparing,  and,  at  his  return,  being  asked  by  his 
host,  "  "What  way  he  had  been  wandering?  "  replied,  "  As  far 
as  it  \&  Jinislied  !  " 

The  bed  of  the  Duddon  is  here  strewn  with  lai-ge  fi-agments 
of  rocks  fallen  from  aloft;  which,  as  ilr.  Green  truly  says,  "  are 
happily  adapted  to  the  many-shaped  waterfalls,"  (or  rather 
waterbreaks,  for  none  of  them  are  high,)  "displayed  in  the 
short  space  of  half  a  mile."  That  there  is  some  hazard  in  fre- 
quenting these  desolate  places,  I  mj'self  have  had  proof;  for  one 
night  an  immense  mass  of  rock  fell  upon  the  very  spot  where, 
with  a  friend,  I  had  lingered  the  day  before.  "  The  concus- 
sion," says  Mr.  Green,  speaking  of  the  event,  (for  he  also,  in 
tlie  practice  of  his  art,  on  that  day  sat  exposed  for  a  still  long- 
er time  to  the  same  peril,)  "  was  heard,  not  without  alarm, 
by  the  neighboring  shepherds."  But  to  return  to  Seathwaite 
I'h'^rchyard:  it  contains  the  following  inscription:  — 

"  In  Memory  of  the  Reverend  Robert  Walker,  who  died  the 


520  NOTES. 

25th  of  June,  1802,  in  the  93d  year  of  his  age,  and  67th  of  his 
Cumcy  at  Se.athwaite. 

"  x\lso,  of  Anne  his  wife,  who  die  1  tlie  2Sth  of  January,  in 
the  93d  year  of  her  age." 

In  the  parish  register  of  Seathwaite  Chapel  is  this  notice:  — 

"  Buried,  June  28th,  the  Rev.  Robert  Walker.  He  was  cu- 
rate of  Seathwaite  sixtj^-six  years.  He  was  a  man  singular 
for  his  temperance,  industry-,  and  integrity." 

This  individual  is  the  Pastor  alluded  to,  in  the  eighteenth 
Sonnet,  as  a  worthy  compeer  of  the  country  parson  of  Chau 
cer,  &c.  In  the  seventh  book  of  the  Excursion,  an  abstract  of 
his  character  is  given,  beginning, 

"  A  Priest  abides  before  whose  life  such  doubts 
Fall  to  the  ground  " ;  — 

and  some  account  of  his  life,  for  it  is  worthy  of  being  recorded, 
will  not  be  out  of  place  here. 


MEMOIR   OF   THE   REV.   ROBERT   WALKER. 

In  the  year  1709,  Robert  Walker  was  born  at  Undcr-crag,  in 
Seathwaite;  he  was  the  youngest  of  twelve  children.  His 
eldest  brother,  who  inherited  the  small  family  estate,  died  at 
Under-crag,  aged  ninety-four,  being  twenty-four  years  older 
than  the  subject  of  this  Memoir,  who  was  born  of  the  same 
mother.  Robert  was  a  sickly  infant;  and  through  his  boy- 
hood and  youth  continuing  to  be  of  delicate  frame  and  tender 
health,  it  was  deemed  best,  according  to  the  country  phrase, 
to  breed  him  a  scholar  ;  for  it  was  not  likely  that  he  would  be 
able  to  earn  a  livelihood  b}'  bodily  labor.  At  that  i)eriod  few 
of  tliese  dales  were  furnished  with  school-houses,  the  children 
being  taught  to  read  and  write  in  the  chapel;  and  in  the  same 
consecrated  building,  where  lie  olliciated  for  so  many  j'cars 
I  oth  as  preacher  and  sclioohtia,«ter,  he  himself  received  the 
r  idiments  of  his  education.  In  his  youth  he  i)ecamo  school- 
antster  at  Lowes  water;  not  being  called  upon,  probably,  in 


NOTES.  821 

that  situation  to  teach  more  than  reading,  writii.^,  and  arith- 
metic. But,  by  the  assistance  of  a  "  Gentleman  "  in  the 
neigliborliood,  he  acquired,  at  lersure  hours,  a  linowledge  of 
the  classics,  and  became  qualified  for  taking  I10I3' orders.  Up 
on  his  ordination,  he  had  tlie  ofler  of  two  curacies:  the  one, 
Torver,  in  the  vale  of  Coniston,  —  the  other,  Seathwaite,  in  his 
native  vale.  The  value  of  each  was  the  same,  viz.  five  pounds 
per  annum :  but  the  cure  of  Seathwaite  having  a  cottage  at- 
tached to  it,  as  he  wished  to  marry,  he  chose  it  in  preference. 
The  young  person  on  whom  his  affections  were  fixed,  though 
in  the  condition  of  a  domestic  servant,  had  given  promise,  by 
her  serious  and  modest  deportment,  and  by  her  virtuous  dis- 
positions, that  she  was  worthy  to  become  the  helpmate  of  a 
man  er.-aring  upon  a  plan  of  life  such  as  lie  had  marked  out 
for  himself.  By  her  frugality  she  had  stored  up  a  small  sum 
of  money,  with  which  they  began  housekeeping.  In  1735  or 
1736,  he  entered  upon  his  curacy ;  and,  nineteen  j'ears  after- 
wards, his  situation  is  thus  described,  in  some  letters  to  be 
found  in  the  Annual  Register  for  1760,  from  which  the  follow- 
ing is  extracted :  — 

"  To  Jlr. . 

"  Sir,  "  Coniston,  July  26,  1754. 

"  I  was  the  other  day  upon  a  jjarty  of  pleasure,  about  five  or 
six  miles  from  this  place,  where  I  met  with  a  very  striking 
object,  and  of  a  nature  not  very  common.  Going  into  a  cler- 
gyman's house  (of  whom  I  had  frequently  heard),  I  found  him 
sitting  at  the  head  of  a  long,  square  table,  such  as  is  commonly 
used  in  this  country  by  the  lower  class  of  people,  dressed  in  a 
coarse  blue  frock,  trimmed  with  black  horn  buttons,  a  checked 
shirt,  a  leathern  strap  about  his  neck  for  a  stock,  a  coarse 
apron,  and  a  pair  of  great  wooden-soled  shoes  plated  with  ircn 
to  preserve  them  (what  we  call  clogs  in  these  parts),  with  a 
child  upon  his  knee,  eating  his  breakfast;  his  wife,  and  the 
remainder  of  his  children,  were  some  of  them  employed  in 
Waiting  upon  each  other,  tiie  rest  in  teasing  and  spinning  wool, 
at  which  trade  lie  is  a  great  proficient;  and  moreover,  when  it 
is  made  ready  for  sale,  will  lay  it,  by  sixteen  or  thirty-two 
younds'  weight,  upon  his  back,  and  on  foot,  seven  or  eight 

VOL.    HI.  21 


322  NOTKS. 

miles,  will  cany  it  to  the  market,  even  in  tho  depth  of  winter. 
I  was  not  much  surprised  at  all  this,  as  you  may  possibly  be, 
having  heard  a  great  deal  of  it  related  before.  But  I  must 
confess  myself  astonished  with  the  alacrity  and  the  good  hu- 
mor that  appeared  both  in  the  clergyman  and  his  wife,  and 
more  so  at  the  sense  and  ingenuity  of  the  clergyman  himself." 

Then  follows  a  letter  from  another  person,  dated  1755,  from 
which  an  extract  shall  be  given. 

"  By  his  frugality  and  good  management,  he  keeps  the  wolf 
from  the  door,  as  we  say;  and  if  he  advances  a  little  in  the 
world,  it  is  owing  more  to  his  own  care,  than  to  anything  else 
he  has  to  rely  upon.  I  don't  find  his  inclination  is  running 
after  further  preferment.  He  is  settled  among  the  people,  that 
are  happy  among  themselves;  and  lives  in  the  greatest  una- 
nimity and  friendship  with  them ;  and,  I  believe,  the  minister 
and  people  arc  exceeding!}'  satisfied  with  each  other;  and  in- 
ileed  how  should  they  be  dissatisfied,  when  they  have  a  person 
of  so  much  worth  and  probity  for  their  pastor?  A  man  who, 
for  his  candor  and  meekness,  his  sober,  chaste,  and  virtuous 
conversation,  his  soundness  in  principle  and  practice,  is  an  or- 
nament to  his  profession,  and  an  honor  to  the  country  he  is  in, 
and  bear  with  me  if  I  say,  the  plainness  of  his  dress,  the  sanc- 
tity of  his  manners,  the  simplicity  of  his  doctrine,  and  the  ve- 
hemence of  his  expression,  have  a  sort  of  resemblance  to  the 
pure  practice  of  primitive  Christianity." 

We  will  now  give  his  own  account  of  himself,  to  be  found  i.i 
uhe  same  place. 

FuoM  THE  Rkv.  RoBKur  Wai-kkk. 

SiH,  —  Yours  of  the  2Cth  instant  was  comnninicated  to  me 

by  Mr.  C ,  and  I  should  have  returned  an  immediate  an 

swer,  but  the  hand  of  Providence,  then  laying  heavy  upon  an 
amiable  pledge  of  conjugal  endearment,  hath  since  taken  from 
me  a  promising  girl,  wiiich  tho  disconsolate  mother  too  pensive- 
ly laments  the  loss  of;  though  we  have  yet  eight  living,  all 
healthful,  hopeful  children,  whose  names  and  ages  are  as  fol 
X)ws:  Zacohens,  aged  almost  eighteen  years;  Elizabeth,  six- 
een   ^^!n•s  and   ten  months;  Jhiry.   (iflecii:   iMoses.   tliirii-en 


NOTES.  323 

years  anc.  three  months ;  Sarah,  ten  years  and  three  mon  hs ,  Jfe 
bel,  eiglit  years  and  three  months;  William  Tyson,  three  years 
and  eight  months ;  and  Anne  Esther,  one  year  and  three  months ; 
besides  Anne,  who  died  two  years  and  six  months  ago,  and  was 
then  aged  between  nine  and  ten ;  and  Eleanor,  who  diod  the  23d 
inot.,  January,  aged  six  yeai-s  and  ten  months.  Zaccheus,  the 
eldest  child,  is  now  learning  the  trade  of  tanner,  and  has  two 
years  and  a  half  of  his  apprenticeship  to  serve.  The  annual 
income  of  my  Chapel  at  present,  as  near  as  I  can  compute  it, 
may  amount  to  about  17^.,  of  which  is  paid  in  cash,  viz.,  5l. 
from  the  bounty  of  Queen  Anne,  and  51.  from  W.  P.,  Esq.,  of 

P ,  out  of  the  annual  rents,  he  being  lord  of  the  manor, 

and  Si  from  the  several  inhabitants  of  L ,  settled  upon  the 

tenements  as  a  rent-charge ;  the  house  and  gardens  I  value  at 
4l.  yearly,  and  not  worth  more ;  and  I  believe  the  surplice  fees 
and  voluntary  contributions,  one  year  with  another,  may  be 
worth  SI. ;  but  as  the  inhabitants  are  few  in  number,  and  the 
fees  very  low,  this  last-mentioned  sum  consists  merely  in  free- 
will offerings. 

"  I  am  situated  greatly  to  my  satisfaction  with  regard  to  the 
conduct  and  behavior  of  my  auditory,  who  not  only  live  in  the 
happy  ignorance  of  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  age,  but  in  mu- 
tual peace  and  good-will  with  one  another,  and  are  seemingly 
(I  hope  really  too)  sincere  Christians,  and  sound  members  of 
the  Established  Church,  not  one  Dissenter  of  any  denomination 
being  amongst  them  all.  I  got  to  the  value  of  40Z.  for  my 
wife's  fortune,  but  had  no  real  estate  of  my  own,  being  the 
youngest  son  of  twelve  children,  born  of  obscure  parents;  and 
though  my  income  has  been  but  small,  and  my  family  large, 
yet,  by  a  providential  blessing  upon  my  own  diligent  endeav- 
ors, the  kindness  of  friends,  and  a  cheap  country  to  live  in, 
we  have  always  had  the  necessaries  of  life.  By  what  1  have 
written,  (which  is  a  true  and  exact  account,  to  the  best  of  my 
knowledge,)  I  hope  you  will  not  think  your  favor  to  me,  out 
of  the  late  worthy  Dr.  Stratford's  efiects,  quite  misbestowed, 
for  which  I  must  ever  gratefully  own  myself, 

"  Sir, 
-•  V'cur  much  obliged  and  most  oljedient  humljle  Servant, 

"  R.  W.,  Curate  of  S . 

♦  To  Mr.  C.  of  Lancaster." 


S24  NOTES. 

About  the  time  when  this  letter  was  written,  the  Bishop  nf 
Chester  recommended  the  sclieme  of  joining  tlie  curacy  of  Ul- 
pha  to  tlie  contiguous  one  of  Seathwaite,  and  the  nomination 
was  offered  to  Mr.  Walker;  but  an  unexpected  difficulty  aris- 
ing, Jlr.  W.,  in  a  letter  to  tlie  Bishop,  (a  copy  ol  which,  in  his 
own  beautiful  handwriting,  now  lies  before  inc,)  thus  expresses 
himself.  "  If  he,"  meaning  the  person  in  whom  the  difficulty 
originated,  "  had  suggested  any  such  objection  before,  I  should 
utterly  have  declined  any  attempt  to  the  curacy  of  Ulpha: 
indeed,  I  was  always  apprehensive  it  might  be  disagi'eeable  to 
my  auditory  at  Seathwaite,  as  they  have  been  always  accus- 
tomed to  double  duty,  and  the  iuiiabitants  of  Ulpha  despair  of 
being  able  to  support  a  schoolmaster  who  is  not  curate  there 
also,  which  suppressed  all  thoughts  in  me  of  serving  them  both." 
And  in  a  second  letter  to  the  Bishop  he  writes:  — 

"  My  Loud, — I  have  the  favor  of  yours  of  the  1st  instant, 
and  am  exceedingly  obliged  on  account  of  the  Ulpha  affair:  if 
that  curacy  should  lapse  into  your  Lordship's  hands,  I  would 
beg  leave  rather  to  decline  than  embrace  it;  for  the  chapels  of 
Seathwaite  and  Ulpha,  annexed  together,  would  be  apt  to  cause 
a  general  discontent  among  the  inhabitants  of  both  places;  by 
either  thinking  themselves  slighted,  being  only  served  alter- 
nately, or  neglected  in  the  duty,  or  attributing  it  to  covetous- 
ness  in  me;  all  which  occasions  of  murmuring  I  would  will- 
ingly avoid."  And  in  concluding  his  former  letter,  he  ex- 
presses a  similar  sentiment  upon  the  same  occasion,  "desiring, 
if  it  be  possible,  however,  as  much  as  in  me  lieth,  to  live  peace 
ably  with  all  men." 

The  year  following,  the  curacy  of  Seathwaite  was  again 
augmented;  and,  to  efl'ect  this  augmentation,  fifty  pounds  had 
been  advanced  by  himself;  and,  in  17C0,  lands  were  [jurchased 
with  eight  hundred  pounds.  Scanty  as  was  his  income,  the 
frequent  otter  of  much  better  benefices  could  not  tempt  Jlr.  W. 
to  quit  a  situation  where  he  had  been  so  long  hap|)y,  with  a 
consciousness  of  being  useful.  Among  his  papers  I  find  the 
following  copy  of  a  letter,  dated  1775,  twenty  years  after  hig 
refusal  of  the  curacvof  Ul|)lia,  which  will  show  what  oxertiona 
oad  been  made  for  one  of  his  sons 


NOTES.  326 

"  May  it  please  your  Gkace,  — 

"  Our  remote  situation  here  makes  it  difficul':-  If  ^et  the  ne- 
cessarj'  inforniatioii  for  transacting  business  reguit,rly;  sucli  is 
the  reason  of  my  giving  your  Grace  the  present  trouble. 

"  The  bearer  (my  son)  is  desirous  of  offering  liimself  candi- 
itate  for  deacon's  orders  at  your  (Jrace's  ensuing  ordination; 
the  first,  on  tlie  25t!i  instant,  so  tluit  his  papers  could  not  l)e 
transinittcd  ir  due  time.  As  lie  is  now  fulh'  at  age,  and  I 
have  alforded  t-im  education  to  the  utmost  of  my  ability,  it 
would  give  me  great  satisfiiction  (if  your  Grace  would  take 
him,  and  find  him  qualified)  to  have  him  ordained.  His  con- 
stitution has  been  tender  for  some  years;  he  entered  the  Col- 
lege of  Dublin,  but  his  health  would  not  permit  him  to  continue 
there,  or  I  would  have  supported  him  much  longer.  He  has 
been  with  me  at  home  above  a  year,  in  -which  time  he  has 
gained  great  strength  of  body,  sufficient,  I  hope,  to  enable  him 
for  performing  the  function.  Divine  Providence,  assisted  by 
liberal  benefactors,  has  blest  my  endeavors,  from  a  small  in- 
come, to  rear  a  numerous  family;  and  as  my  time  of  life  ren- 
ders me  now  unfit  for  much  future  expectancy  fi-om  this  world, 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  my  son  settled  in  a  promising  way  to 
acquire  an  honest  livelihood  for  himself.  His  behavior,  so  far 
in  life,  has  been  irreproachable;  and  I  hope  be  will  not  degen- 
erate, in  principles  or  practice,  from  the  precepts  and  pattern 
of  an  indulgent  parent.  Your  Grace's  favorable  reception  of 
this,  from  a  distant  corner  of  the  diocese,  and  an  obscure  hand, 
will  excite  filial  gratitude,  and  a  due  use  shall  be  made  of  the 
obligation  vouchsafed  thereby  to 

"  Your  Grace's  very  dutiful  and  most  obedient 
"  Son  and  servant, 

"  rioBKKT  Walker." 

The  same  man,  who  was  thus  liberal  in  the  education  of  his 
numerous  family,  was  even  munificent  in  hospitality  as  a  par 
ish  priest.  Every  Sunday  were  served,  upon  the  long  table, 
at  which  he  has  been  described  sitting  with  a  child  upon  hii 
knee,  messes  of  broth,  for  the  refreshment  of  those  of  his  con- 
gregation who  came  from  a  distance,  and  usually  took  their 
V\ats  as  parts  of  his  own  household.    It  seems  scarcely  possible 


^^26  NOTKS. 

that  this  custom  could  have  commerced  before  the  augmenta- 
tion of  his  cure;  and  what  would  to  many  have  been  a  high 
price  of  self-denial  was  paid,  by  the  pastor  and  his  family,  for 
this  gi-atification ;  as  the  treat  could  only  be  provided  by  dress- 
ing at  one  time  the  whole,  perhaps,  of  their  weeklj-  allowance 
of  fresh  animal  food ;  consequently,  for  a  succession  of  days,  the 
table  was  covered  with  cold  victuals  only.  His  generosity  in 
old  age  may  be  still  further  illustrated  by  a  little  circumstance 
relating  to  an  orphan  grandson,  then  ten  j-ears  of  age,  which  I 
find  in  a  copy  of  a  letter  to  one  of  his  sons;  he  requests  that 
half  a  guinea  may  be  left  for  "  little  Robert's  pocket-money,'' 
who  was  then  at  school :  intrusting  it  to  the  care  of  a  lady,  who, 
as  he  saj's,  "  may  sometimes  frustrate  his  squandering  it  away 
foolishly,"  and  promising  to  send  him  an  equal  allowance  an- 
nually for  the  same  purpose.  The  conclusion  of  the  same  let- 
ter is  so  characteristic,  that  I  cannot  forbear  to  transcribe  it. 
"  We,"  meaning  his  wife  and  hunself,  "  are  in  our  wonted  state 
of  health,  allowing  for  the  hasty  strides  of  old  age  knocking 
daily  at  our  door,  and  threateningly  telling  us,  we  are  not  only 
mortal,  but  must  expect  erelong  to  take  our  leave  of  our  an- 
cient cottage,  and  lie  down  in  out  last  dormitory.  Pray  par- 
don my  neglect  to  answer  yours:  let  us  hear  sooner  from  you, 
to  .augment  the  mirth  of  the  Christmas  holidays.  Wishing 
you  all  the  pleasures  of  the  approaching  season,  I  am,  dear 
Son,  with  lasting  sincerity,  yours  affectionately, 

"  ROBKRT    W.\I,KF.I<." 

He  loved  old  customs  and  old  usages,  and  in  some  instances 
stuck  to  them  to  his  own  loss ;  for,  having  had  a  sum  of  money 
lodged  in  the  hands  of  a  neighboring  tradesman,  when  long 
course  of  time  had  raised  the  rate  of  interest,  and  more  was 
offered,  he  refused  to  accept  it;  an  act  not  difficult  to  one,  who, 
while  he  was  drawing  seventeen  pounds  a  year  from  his  ciu'acy, 
declined,  as  we  have  seen,  to  add  the  profits  of  another  small 
benefice  to  his  own,  lest  he  should  be  suspected  of  cupidity. — 
From  this  vice  he  was  utterly  free;  he  made  no  charge  for 
leaching  school;  such  as  could  afford  to  pay,  gave  him  what 
*hey  pleased.  When  very  young,  having  kept  a  diary  of  his 
expenses,  Lnwever  trifling  the  large  amount  at  tiie  end  of  the 


NOTES.  327 

frar  surprised  him;  and  from  that  time  the  rule  of  his  life  wa* 
to  be  economical,  not  avaricious.  At  his  decease  he  left  beliii.  J 
hjra  no  less  a  sum  than  2,000^. ;  and  such  a  sense  of  his  various 
excellences  was  prevalent  in  the  country,  that  the  epithet  of 
woxDEKFUL  is  to  this  day  attached  to  his  name. 

There  is  in  the  above  sketch  something  so  extraordinary  as 
to  require  further  explanatori/  details.  —  And  to  begin  with  his 
industry :  eight  hours  in  each  day,  during  five  days  in  the  week, 
and  half  of  Saturday,  except  when  the  labors  of  husbandry 
were  urgent,  he  was  occupied  in  teaching.  His  seat  was  with- 
in the  rails  of  the  altar;  the  communion-table  was  his  desk; 
and,  like  Shenstone's  schoolmistress,  the  master  employed 
himself  at  the  spinning-vrheel,  while  the  children  were  repeat- 
ing their  lessons  by  his  side.  Every  evening,  after  school  hours, 
if  not  more  profitably  engaged,  he  continued  the  same  kind  of 
labor,  exchanging,  for  the  benefit  of  exercise,  the  small  wheel, 
at  which  he  had  sat,  for  the  large  one  on  which  wool  is  spun, 
the  spinner  stepping  to  and  fro.  Thus  was  the  wheel  constant- 
ly iu  readiness  to  prevent  the  waste  of  a  moment's  time.  Nor 
■was  his  industry  with  the  pen,  when  occasion  called  for  it,  less 
eager.  Intrusted  with  extensive  management  of  public  and 
private  affairs,  he  acted,  in  his  rustic  neighborhood,  as  scrive- 
ner, writing  out  petitions,  deeds  of  conveyance,  wills,  cove- 
nants, &c.,  with  pecuniary  gain  to  himself,  and  to  the  gi'eat 
benefit  of  his  employers.  These  labors  (at  all  times  consider- 
able) at  one  period  of  the  year,  viz.  between  Christmas  and 
Candlemas,  when  money  transactions  are  settled  in  this  coun- 
trj',  were  often  so  intense,  that  he  passed  great  part  of  the 
night,  and  sometimes  whole  nights,  at  his  desk.  His  garden 
also  was  tilled  by  his  own  hand ;  he  had  a  right  of  pasturage 
upon  the  mountains  for  a  few  sheep  and  a  couple  of  cows, 
which  required  his  attendance;  with  this  pastoral  occupation, 
he  jjined  the  labors  of  husbandry  upon  a  small  scale,  rentinjr 
hvc  or  three  acres,  in  addition  to  his  own  less  than  one  acre  ot 
glebe;  and  the  humblest  drudgery  which  the  cultivation  J 
thes3  fields  required  was  perfonned  by  himself. 

H5  also  assisted  his  neighbors  in  haymaking  and  shearing 
the.r  flocks,  and  in  the  perfoiTuance  of  this  latter  service  he 
sras  eminently  dexterous.    Ihey,  in  their  turn,  complimented 


328  NOTES. 

him  with  the  present  of  a  haycock,  or  a  fleece ;  less  as  a  rec- 
ompense for  this  particular  service  than  as  a  general  acknowl- 
edgment. The  Sabbath  was  in  a  strict  sense  kept  lioly;  the 
Sunday  evenings  being  devoted  to  reading  the  Scripture  and 
family  prayer.  Tlie  principal  festivals  appointed  by  the 
Church  were  also  duly  observed;  but  through  evrry  other 
day  in  the  week,  through  every  week  in  the  year,  ho  was  in 
oessantly  occupied  in  work  of  hand  or  mind;  not  allowing  a 
moment  for  recreation,  except  upon  a  Saturday  afternoon, 
when  he  indulged  himself  with  a  Newspaper,  or  sometimes 
with  a  Magazine.  The  frugality  and.  temperance  established 
in  his  house  were  as  admirable  as  the  industry.  Nothing  to 
which  the  name  of  lu.Kury  could  be  given  was  there  known ;  in 
the  latter  part  of  his  life,  iiideed,  when  tea  had  been  brought 
into  almost  general  use,  it  was  provided  for  visitors,  and  for 
such  of  his  own  family  as  returned  occasionally  to  hij,  roof, 
and  had  been  accustomed  to  this  refreshment  elsewhere:  but 
neither  he  nor  his  wife  ever  partook  of  it.  The  raiment  worn 
by  his  family  was  comely  and  decent,  but  as  simple  as  their 
diet ;  the  homespun  materials  were  made  up  into  appai-el  by 
their  own  hands.  At  the  time  of  the  decease  of  this  thrifty 
pair,  their  cottage  contained  a  large  store  of  webs  of  woolkn 
and  linen  cloth,  woven  from  thread  of  their  own  spinning.  And 
it  is  remarkable  that  the  pew  in  the  cliapol  in  which  the  fam- 
il}'  used  to  sit  remains  neatly  lined  with  woollen  cloth  spun  by 
the  pastor's  own  hands.  It  is  the  onlj'  pew  in  the  chapel  so 
distinguished;  and  I  know  of  no  other  instance  of  his  conform- 
ity to  the  delicate  accommodations  of  modern  times.  The  fuel 
of  the  house,  like  that  of  their  neighbors,  consisted  of  peat,  pro- 
cured from  the  mosses  by  their  own  labor.  The  lights  by 
which,  in  the  winter  evenings,  their  work  was  performed,  wero 
of  their  own  manufacture,  such  as  still  continue  to  be  used  in 
these  cottages;  they  are  made  of  the  pith  of  rushes  dijjped  in 
any  unctuous  substance  that  the  house  affords.  White  can- 
dle\  as  tallow  candles  are  here  called,  were  reserved  to  honof 
the  Christmas  festivals,  and  wero  perhaps  produced  upon  no 
other  occasions.  Once  a  month,  during  the  proper  season,  a 
eheep  was  drawn  from  their  small  mountain  flock,  and  killed 
8r»r  the  use  o(  the  family;  and  a  cow,  towards  the  close  of  the 


NOTES.  "329 

/ear,  was  salted  and  dried  for  winter  provisi jn :  tlie  hide  was 
tanned  to  furnisli  them  with  shoes.  By  these  vai-ious  re- 
sources, this  venerable  clergyman  reared  a  numerous  family, 
not  only  preserving  them,  as  he  affectingly  says,  "  from  want- 
ing the  necessaries  of  life,"  but  affording  them  an  unstinted 
education,  and  the  means  of  raising  themselves  in  society.  lu 
this  they  were  eminently  assisted  by  the  effects  of  their  father's 
example,  his  precepts  and  injunctions:  he  was  aware  that 
truth-speaking,  as  a  moral  virtue,  is  best  secui-ed  by  inculcat- 
ing attention  to  accuracy  of  report  even  on  trivial  occasions ; 
and  so  rigid  were  the  niles  of  honesty  by  which  he  endeavored 
to  bring  up  liis  family,  that  if  one  of  them  had  chanced  to  find 
in  the  lanes  or  fields  anything  of  the  least  use  or  value  without 
being  able  to  ascertain  to  whom  it  belonged,  he  always  insisted 
upon  the  child's  carrying  it  back  to  the  place  from  which  it 
had  been  brought. 

No  one,  it  might  be  thought,  could,  as  has  been  described, 
convert  his  body  into  a  machine,  as  it  were,  of  industry  for  the 
humblest  uses,  and  keep  his  thoughts  so  frequently  bent  upon 
secular  concerns,  without  grievous  injury  to  the  more  precious 
parts  of  his  nature.  How  could  the  powers  of  intellect  thrive, 
or  its  graces  be  displayed,  in  the  midst  of  circumstances  ap- 
parently so  unfavorable,  and  where  to  the  direct  cultivation 
of  the  mind  so  small  a  portion  of  time  was  allotted?  But  in 
this  extraordinary  man  things  in  their  nature  adverse  were 
reconciled.  His  conversation  was  remarkable,  not  only  for 
being  chaste  and  pure,  but  for  the  degree  in  which  it  was  fer- 
vent and  eloquent ;  his  written  style  was  correct,  simple,  and 
animated.  Nor  did  his  affections  suffer  more  than  his  intellect; 
he  was  tenderly  alive  to  all  the  duties  of  his  pastoral  office: 
the  poor  and  needy  "  he  never  sent  empty  away,"  —  the  stran- 
ger was  fed  and  refreshed  in  passing  that  unfrequented  vale,  — 
the  sick  were  visited ;  and  the  feelings  of  humanity  found  fur- 
ther exercise  among  the  distresses  and  embarrassments  in  the 
worldlyestate  of  his  neighbors,  with  wliich  Ills  talents  for  busi- 
ness made  him  acquainted;  and  the  disinterestedness,  impar- 
tiality, and  uprightness  which  he  maintained  in  the  manage- 
ment of  all  affairs  confided  to  him,  were  virtues  seldom  s'?p:i- 
rated  in  his  own  conscience  from  rehgious  obligation.     Nol 


530  NOTES. 

could  such  conduct  fail  to  remind  those  who  witnessed  it  of  a 
spirit  nobler  than  law  or  custom:  they  felt  convictions  whicli. 
but  for  such  intercourse,  could  not  have  been  afforded,  that, 
as  in  the  practice  of  their  pastor  there  was  no  guile,  so  in  his 
faitli  there  was  nothing  hollow;  and  we  are  warranted  in  be- 
lieving, that,  upon  these  occasions,  selfishness,  obstinacy,  and 
discord  would  often  give  way  before  the  breathings  of  his  good- 
will and  saintly  integrity.  It  may  be  presumed  also,  —  while 
his  humble  congregation  were  listening  to  the  moral  precepts 
which  he  delivered  from  the  pulpit,  and  to  the  Christian  ex- 
hortations that  they  should  love  their  neighbors  as  themselves, 
and  do  as  they  would  be  done  unto,  —  that  peculiar  efficacy 
was  given  to  the  preacher'^ labors  by  recollections  in  the  minds 
of  his  congregation,  that  they  were  called  upon  to  do  no  more 
than  his  own  actions  were  daily  setting  before  their  eyes. 

The  afternoon  service  in  the  chapel  was  less  numerously 
attended  than  that  of  the  morning,  hnt  by  a  more  serious 
auditory ;  the  lesson  from  the  New  Testament,  on  those  occa 
sions,  was  accompanied  by  Burkitt's  Commentaries.  These 
lessons  he  read  with  impassioned  emphasis,  frequently  drawing 
tears  from  his  hearers,,  and  leaving  a  lasting  impression  upon 
their  minds.  His  devotional  feelings  and  the  powers  of  his 
own  mind  were  further  exercised,  along  with  those  of  his 
family,  in  perusing  the  Scriptures :  not  only  on  the  Sunday 
evenings,  but  on  every  other  evening,  while  the  rest  of  the 
iiousehold  were  at  work,  some  one  of  the  children,  and  in  her 
turn  the  servant,  for  the  sake  of  practice  in  reading,  or  for  in- 
struction, read  the  Bible  aloud;  and  in  this  mauner  the  whole 
was  repeatedly  gone  through.  That  no  common  importance 
was  attached  to  the  observance  of  religious  ordinances  by  his 
•family,  appears  from  the  following  memorandum  l)v  one  of 
his  descendants,  which  I  am  tempted  to  insert  at  length,  as  it 
is  characteristic,  and  somewhat  curious.  "  Tiiere  is  a  small 
chapel  in  the  county  palatine  of  I.uncaster,  where  a  certain 
clergyman  has  regularly  officiated  above  sixty  years,  and  afew 
montiis  ago  administered  the  sacrament  of  tiie  Lord's  Sujiper 
in  the  same,  to  a  decent  number  of  devout  communicants. 
AftiM-  the  clergyman  had  received  himself,  the  first  com])any 
ou'  of  the  assembly  who  approached  the  altar,  and  kneeled 


NOTES.  331 

Jown  to  be  partakers  of  the  sacred  elements,  consisted  of  the 
piu-son's  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  upwards  of  sixty 
years;  one  son  and  his  wife;  four  daugliters,  each  with  her  hus- 
band; whose  ages,  all  added  together,  amount  to  above  714 
years.  The  several  and  respective  distances  from  the  place  of 
each  of  their  abodes  to  the  chapel  where  they  all  communicated 
will  measure  more  than  1,000  English  miles.  Though  the  narra- 
tion will  appear  surprising,  it  is  without  doubt  a  fact,  that  the 
same  persons,  exactly  four  years  before,  met  at  the  same  itlace, 
and  all  joined  in  performance  of  the  same  venerable  duty." 

He  was*  indeed  most  zealouslj^  attached  to  the  doctrine  and 
frame  of  the  Established  Church.  We  have  seen  him  con- 
gratulating himself  that  he  had  no  Dissenters  in  his  cure,  of  any 
denomination.  Some  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  state  of 
opinion  when  his  first  religious  impressions  were  received, 
before  the  reader  will  acquit  him  of  bigotry,  when  I  mention, 
that,  at  the  time  of  the  augmentation  of  the  cure,  he  refused  to 
invest  part  of  the  money  in  the  purchase  of  an  estate  offered  to 
him  upon  advantageous  terms,  because  the  proprietor  was  a 
Quaker ;  -2-  whether  from  scrupulous  apprehension  that  a  bless- 
ing would  not  attend  a  contract  framed  for  the  benefit  of  the 
church  between  persons  not  in  religous  sympathy  with  each 
other;  or,  as  a  seeker  of  peace,  he  was  afraid  of  the  uncomply- 
ing disposition  which  at  one  time  was  too  frequently  conspic- 
uous in  that  sect.  Of  this  an  instance  had  fallen  under  his  own 
notice;  for,  while  he  taught  school,  at  Loweswater,  certain 
persons  of  that  denomination  had  refused  to  pay  annual  inter- 
est due  under  the  title  of  Church-stock;*  a  great  hardship 
upon  the  incumbent,  for  the  curacy  of  Loweswater  was  then 
scarcely  less  poor  than  that  of  Seathwaite.  To  what  degi-ee 
this  prejudice  of  his  was  blamable  need  not  be  determined;  — 
certain  it  is,  that  he  was  not  only  desirous,  as  he  himself  says, 
to  live  in  peace,  but  in  love,  with  all  men.  He  was  placable,  and 
charitable  in  his  judgments;  and  however  correct  in  conduct 
ftnd  rigorous  to  himself,  he  was  ever  ready  to  forgive  the  tres- 

•  Mr.  Walker's  charity  being  of  that  kind  which  "  seeketh  not  her 
own,"  he  would  rather  forego  his  rights  than  distrain  for  dues  vv  lich 
tie  parties  liable  refused,  as  a  point  of  conscience,  to  pay. 


532  NOTES. 

passes  of  otliers,  and  to  softea  the  censure  that  was  cast  upon 
their  frailties.  —  It  would  be  unpardonable  to  omit,  that,  in  the 
maintenance  of  his  virtues,  he  received  due  S'Upport  from  the 
partner  of  his  long  life.  She  was  equally  strict  in  attending 
to  her  share  of  their  joint  cares,  nor  less  diligent  in  her  appro- 
priate occupations.  A  person  who  had  been  some  time  their 
servant  in  the  latter  part  of  their  lives,  concluded  the  pane- 
gyric of  her  mistress  by  saying  to  me,  "  She  was  no  less  excel- 
lent than  her  husband:  she  was  good  to  the  poor;  she  was 
good  to  everything !  "  He  survived  for  a  short  time  this  virtu- 
ous companion.  When  she  died,  he  ordered  that. her  body 
Bhould  be  borne  to  the  gi-ave  by  three  of  her  daughters  and  one 
granddaughter;  and  when  the  corpse  was  lifted  from  the 
threshold,  he  insisted  upon  lending  his  aid,  and,  feeling  about, 
for  he  was  then  ahnost  blind,  took  hold  of  a  napkin  fixed  to 
the  coffin;  and,  as  a  bearer  of  the  body,  entered  the  chapel,  a 
few  steps  from  the  lowly  parsonage. 

What  a  contrast  does  the  life  of  this  obscurely-seated,  and, 
in  point  of  worldly  wealth,  poorly-repaid  Churchman,  present 
to  that  of  a  Cardinal  Wolsey ! 

"  0  't  is  a  burden,  Cromwell,  't  is  a  burden 
Too  lieavy  for  a  man  who  hopes  for  heaven !  " 

We  have  been  dwelling  upon  images  of  peace  in  the  moral 
world,  that  have  brought  us  again  to  the  quiet  inclosure  of 
consecrated  gi'ound  in  which  this  venerable  pair  lie  interred. 
The  sounding  brook,  that  rolls  close  by  the  churchyard,  with- 
out disturbing  feeling  or  meditation,  is  now  unfortunately  laid 
bare;  but  not  long  ago  it  participated,  with  the  chapel,  the 
sliade  of  some  stately  ash-trees,  which  will  not  spring  agjiin. 
While  the  spectator  from  this  spot  is  looking  round  upon  the 
girdle  of  stony  mountains  that  encompasses  the  vale,  —  masses 
of  rock,  out  of  which  monuments  for  all  men  that  ever  existed 
might  have  been  hewn,  —  it  would  surprise  him  to  be  told,  aa 
with  truth  he  might  be,  that  the  plain  blue  slab  dedicated  to 
the  memory  of  tiiis  aged  pair  is  a  production  of  a  quarry  ia 
North  Wales.  It  was  sent  as  a  mark  of  respect  by  one  of  their 
descendants  from  the  vale  of  Festiniog,  a  region  almost  m 
beautiful  as  that  in  which  it  now  liesl 


NOTES.  333 

Upon  the  Seathwaite  Brook,  at  a  small  distance  from  the 
sarsonage,  has  been  erected  a  mill  for  spinning  yarn;  it  is 
»  mean  and  disagreeable  object,  though  not  unimportant  to 
the  spectator,  as  calling  to  mind  the  momentous  changes 
wrought  by  such  inventions  in  the  frame  ot  society,  —  changes 
which  have  proved  especially  unfavorable  to  these  mountain 
Bolitudes.  So  much  had  been  effected  by  those  new  powers, 
before  the  subject  of  the  preceding  biographical  sketch  closed  his 
life,  that  their  operation  could  not  escape  his  notice,  and  doubt- 
less excited  touching  reflections  upon  the  comparatively  insig- 
nificant rejults  of  his  own  manual  industry.  But  Robert 
Walker  was  not  a  man  of  times  and  circumstam.-es :  had  he 
lived  at  a  later  period,  the  principle  of  duty  would  have  pro- 
duced application  as  unremitting ;  the  same  energy  of  character 
would  have  been  displayed,  though  in  many  instances  with 
widely  different  effects. 

With  pleasure  I  annex,  as  illustrative  and  confirmatory  of 
the  above  account,  extracts  from  a  paper  in  the  Christian  Re 
membrancer,  October,  1819:  it  bears  an  assumed  signature, 
but  is  known  to  be  the  work  of  the  Rev.  Robert  Bamford,  vicar 
of  Bishopton,  in  the  county  of  Durham ;  a  great-grandson  of 
Mr.  Walker,  whose  worth  it  commemorates  by  a  record  not 
the  less  valuable  for  being  written  in  very  early  youth. 

"  His  house  was  a  nursery  of  virtue.  All  the  inmates  were 
industrious,  and  cleanly,  and  happy.  Sobriety,  neatness, 
quietness,  characterized  the  whole  family.  No  railings,  no 
idleness,  no  indulgence  of  passion,  were  permitted.  Every 
child,  however  young,  had  its  appointed  engagements;  ewry 
hand  was  busy.  Knitting,  spuming,  reading,  writing,  mending 
clothes,  making  shoes,  were  by  the  different  children  constant- 
ly performing.  The  father  himself,  sitting  amongst  them,  and 
guiding  their  thoughts,  was  engaged  in  the  same  occupations. 

"  He  sat  up  late,  and  rose  early ;  when  the  family  were  at 
rest,  he  retired  to  a  little  room  which  he  had  built  on  the  roof 
of  his  house.  He  had  slated  it,  and  fitted  it  up  with  shelves 
for  his  books,  his  stock  of  cloth,  wearing  apparel,  and  his  uten 
Bils.  There  many  a  cold  winter's  night,  without  fire,  while  the 
roof  was  glazed  with  ice,  did  he  remain  reading  or  writing  till 
the  daj'  dawned.    He  taught  the  children  in  the  chapel,  foi 


334  NOTES. 

there  was  no  school-house.  Yet  in  that  cold,  damp  place  he 
never  had  a  fire.  He  used  to  send  the  children  in  parties 
either  to  his  own  fire  at  home,  or  make  them  run  up  the 
mountain-side. 

"  It  may  be  further  mentioned,  that  he  was  a  passionate  ad- 
mirer of  Nature;  she  was  his  mother,  and  he  was  a  dutiful 
child.  While  engaged  on  the  mountains,  it  was  his  greatest 
pleasure  to  view  the  rising  sun;  and  in  tranquil  evenings,  as  it 
elided  behind  the  hills,  he  blessed  its  departure.  He  was  skilled 
in  fossils  and  plants;  a  constant  observer  of  the  stars  and 
winds :  the  atmosphere  was  his  delight.  He  made  many  ex- 
periments on  its  nature  and  properties.  In  summer  he  used  to 
gather  a  multitude  of  flies  and  insects,  and,  by  his  entertaining 
description,  amuse  and  instruct  his  children.  They  shared  all 
his  daily  employments,  and  derived  many  sentiments  of  love 
and  benevolence  from  his  observations  on  the  works  and  pro- 
ductions of  nature.  Whether  they  were  following  him  in  the 
field,  or  surrounding  him  in  school,  he  took  everj'  opportunity 
of  storing  their  minds  with  useful  information.  —  Nor  was  the 
circle  of  his  influence  confined  to  Seathwaite.  Many  a  distant 
mother  has  told  her  child  of  Mr.  Walker,  and  begged  him  to  be 
as  good  a  man. 

"  Once,  when  I  was  very  young,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
and  hearing  that  venerable  old  man  in  his  ninetieth  year,  and 
even  then,  the  calmness,  the  force,  the  perspicuity  of  his  ser- 
mon, sanctified  and  adorned  by  the  wisdom  of  gi-ay  hairs,  and 
the  authorilj"- of  virtue,  had  sucii  an  effect  upon  my  mind,  that 
I  never  see  a  hoary-headed  clergyman  without  thinking  of  Mr. 

Walker He  allowed  no  Dissenter  or  Methodist  to  in 

torfere  in  the  instruction  of  the  souls  connnitted  to  his  cure: 
and  so  successful  were  his  exertions,  that  he  bad  not  one  Dis- 
senter of  any  denomination  whatever  in  the  whole  ])ansh. 
Though  he  avoided  all  religious  controversies,  yet  when  age 
had  silvered  his  head,  and  virtuous  piety  had  secured  to  hia 
appearance  reverence  and  silent  honor,  no  one,  however  deter- 
."ninad  in  lis  hatred  of  apostolic  descent,  could  have  listened 
*o  his  discourse  on  ecclesiastical  history  and  ancient  times 


NOTES.  335 

without  thinking  that  one  of  the  beloved  Apostles  had  returned 
to  mortality,  and  in  that  vale  of  peace  had  come  to  exemplify 
the  beauty  of  hoUness  in  the  life  and  character  of  Mr.  Walker- 

"  Until  the  sickness  of  his  wife,  a  few  months  previous  to 
her  death,  his  health  and  spirits  and  faculties  were  unimpaired. 
But  this  misfortune  gave  him  such  a  shock,  that  his  constitu- 
tion gradually  decayed.  His  senses,  except  sight,  still  pre- 
served their  powers.  He  never  preached  with  steadiness  after 
his  wife's  death.  His  voice  faltered :  he  always  looked  at  the 
seat  she  had  used.  He  could  not  pass  her  tomb  without  tears. 
He  became,  when  alone,  sad  and  melancholy,  though  still 
among  his  friends  kind  and  good-humored.  He  went  to  bed 
about  twelve  o'clock  the  night  before  his  death.  As  his  cus- 
tom was,  he  went,  tottering  and  leaning  upon  his  daughter's 
arm,  to  examine  the  heavens,  and  meditate  a  few  moments  in 
the  open  air.  "  How  clear  the  moon  shines  to-night!"  He 
said  these  words,  sighed,  and  laid  down.  At  six  next  morn- 
ing he  was  found  a  corpse,  llany  a  tear,  and  many  a  heavy 
heart,  and  many  a  grateful  blessing,  followed  him  to  the  gi-ave." 

Having  mentioned  in  this  narrative  the  vale  of  Loweswater 
as  a  place  where  Mr.  Walker  taught  school,  I  will  add  a  few 
memoranda  from  its  parish  register,  respecting  a  person  appar- 
ently of  desires  as  moderate,  with  whom  he  must  have  been 
Intimate  during  his  residence  there. 

"  Let  him  that  would,  ascend  the  tottering  seat 
Of  courtly  gi-andeur,  and  become  as  gi-eat 
As  are  his  mounting  wishes ;  but  for  me. 
Let  sweet  repose  and  rest  my  portion  be. 

Henry  Forest,  Curate." 

"  Honor,  the  idol  which  the  most  adore, 
Receives  no  homage  from  my  knee ; 
Content  in  privacy  1  value  more 
Than  all  uneasy  dignity." 

"  Henry  Forest  came  to  Loweswator,  1708,  being  twenty- 
five  years  of  age." 
"  This  curacy  was  twice  augmented  by  Queen  Anne's  Bonn- 


336  NOTES. 

ty.  riie  first  payment,  with  gi-eat  difBculty,  was  paid  to  Jlr. 
John  Curwen  of  London,  on  the  9th  of  May,  1724,  deposited 
6y  me,  Henry  Forest,  Curate  of  Loweswater.  Y«  said  9th  of 
May,  ye  said  Mr  Curwen  went  to  the  office,  and  saw  my  name 
registered  there,  &c.  Tliis,  by  the  Providence  of  God,  came 
by  lot  to  tliis  poor  place. 

"  Hjbc  tester  H.  Forest." 

In  another  place  he  records,  that  the  sycamore-trees  were 
planted  in  the  churchyard  in  1710. 

He  died  in  1741,  having  been  curate  thh-ty-four  years.  It  is 
not  improbable  tliat  H.  Forest  w:is  the  gentleman  who  assisted 
Robert  Walker  in  his  classical  studies  at  Loweswater. 

To  this  parish  register  is  prefixed  a  motto,  of  which  the  fol 
lowing  verses  are  a  part:  — 

"Invigilate  viri,  tacito  nam  tempera  gressu 
Diffugiunt,  nuUoque  sone  convertitur  annus; 
Utendum  est  setate,  cite  pede  praeterit  setas." 


Page  270. 

"  Wtftd  that  we  are  greater  than  we  inow." 

"  And  feel  that  I  am  happier  than  I  know." 

Milton. 

The  allusion  to  the  Greek  ■pvoA  will  oe  obvious  to  the  classi- 
cal reader. 

Page  284. 

''Highland  Hut." 

This  sonnet  describes  the  exterior  of  a  Highland  hut,  as  often 
seen  under  morning  or  evening  sunshine.  To  the  authoress 
of  the  "  Address  to  the  Wind,"  and  other  poems,  in  these  vol 
dines,  who  was  my  fellow-traveller  in  this  tour,  I  am  indebted 
tor  the  fellewi«ig  extract  from  her  journal,  which  accurately 
describe?,  under  particular  circumstances,  the  beautiful  appear 
ance  of  the  interior  of  ene  of  these  rude  habitations. 


NOTES.  33? 

•  On  our  ret-  ni  from  the  Trosachs  the  evening  began  to 
darken,  and  it  rained  so  heavily  that  we  wei"e  completely  wet 
oefore  we  had  come  two  miles,  and  it  was  dark  when  we  land- 
ed with  our  boatman,  at  his  hut  upon  the  banks  of  Loch  Ka- 
trine. I  was  faint  from  cold:  the  good  woman  had  provided, 
according  to  her  promise,  a  better  fire  than  we  had  found  in 
tiie  morning;  and,  indeed,  when  I  sat  down  in  the  chimney 
corner  of  her  smoky  biggin,  I  thought  I  had  never  felt  more 
comfortable  in  my  life :  a  pan  of  cofifee  was  boiling  for  us,  and, 
having  put  our  clothes  in  the  way  of  drying,  we  all  sat  down, 
thankful  for  a  shelter.  We  could  not  prevail  upon  our  boat- 
man, the  master  of  the  house,  to  draw  near  the  fire,  though  he 
was  cold  and  wet,  or  to  suffer  his  wife  to  get  him  dry  clothes 
till  she  had  served  us,  which  she  did  most  willingly,  though 
not  very  expeditiously. 

"  A  Cumberland  man  of  the  same  rank  would  not  have  had 
such  a  notion  of  what  was  fit  and  right  in  his  own  house,  or, 
if  he  had,  one  would  have  accused  him  of  servility;  but  in  the 
Highlander  it  only  seemed  like  politeness  (however  erroneous 
and  painful  to  us ),  naturally  growing  out  of  the  dependence  of 
the  inferiors  of  a  clan  upon  their  laird ;  he  did  not,  however, 
refuse  to  let  his  wife  bring  out  the  whiskey-bottle  for  his  re- 
freshment, at  our  request.  '  She  keeps  a  dram,'  as  the  phrase 
is :  indeed,  I  believe  there  is  scarcely  a  lonely  house  by  the 
way-side,  in  Scotland,  where  travellers  may  not  be  accommo- 
dated with  a  dram.  We  asked  for  sugar,  butter,  barley-bread, 
and  milk ;  and,  with  a  smile  and  a  stare  more  of  kindness  than 
wonder,  she  replied, '  Ye  '11  get  that,'  bringing  each  article  sep- 
arately. We  caroused  our  cups  of  cofl'ee,  laughing  like  chil- 
dren at  the  strange  atmosphere  in  which  we  were:  the  smoke 
came  in  gusts,  and  spread  along  the  walls ;  above  our  heads  in 
the  chimney  (where  the  hens  were  roosting)  it  appeared  like 
V  louds  in  the  sky.  We  laughed  and  laughed  again,  in  spite 
of  the  smarting  of  our  eyes,  yet  had  a  quieter  pleasure  in  ob- 
serving the  beauty  of  the  beams  and  rafters  gleaming  between 
the  clouds  of  smoke:  they  had  been  crusted  over,  and  Tar- 
nished by  many  winters,  till  where  the  firelight  fell  upon  them, 
they  had  become  as  glossy  as  black  rocks,  on  a  sunny  day,  ca.sed 
■ji  ice.    When  we  had  eaten  our  supper  we  sat  about  half  an 

VOL.  III.  22 


338  NOTES. 

hour,  and  I  think  I  never  felt  so  deeply  the  blessing  of  a  hos- 
pitable welcome  and  a  ■warm  fire.  The  man  of  the  house  re- 
peated from  time  to  time  tliat  we  should  often  tell  of  this  night 
when  we  got  to  our  homes,  and  interposed  praises  of  his  own 
lake,  which  he  had  iHore  than  once,  when  we  were  returning  in 
the  boat,  ventured  to  say  was  '  bonnier  than  Loch  Lomond.' 
Our  companion  from  tlie  Trosachs,  who,  it  appeared,  was  an 
Kdinburgh  drawing-master,  going,  during  the  vacation,  on  a 
pedestrian  tour  to  Jolm  o' Groat's  house,  was  to  sleep  in  the 
barn  with  my  fellow-travellers,  where  the  man  said  he  had 
plenty  of  dry  hay.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  hay  of  the  High- 
lands is  ever  very  diy,  but  this  year  it  had  a  better  chance 
than  usual:  wet  or  dry,  however,  the  next  morning  they  said 
they  had  slept  comfortably.  When  I  went  to  bed,  the  mistress, 
desiring  me  to  '  go  ben,''  attended  me  with  a  candle,  and  as- 
sured me  that  the  bed  was  dry,  though  not  '  sic  as  I  had  been 
used  to.'  It  was  of  chaff:  there  were  two  others  in  the  room, 
a  cupboard  and  two  chests,  upon  one  of  which  stood  milk  in 
wooden  vessels,  covered  over.  The  walls  of  the  house  were  of 
stone  unplastered:  it  consisted  of  three  apartments,  the  cow- 
house at  one  end,  the  kitchen  or  house  in  the  middle,  and  the 
spence  at  the  other  end;  the  rooms  were  divided,  not  up  to  the 
rigging,  but  only  to  the  beginning  of  the  roof,  so  that  there  was 
a  free  passage  for  light  and  smoke  from  one  end  of  the  house 
to  the  other.  I  went  to  bed  some  time  before  the  rest  of  the 
family;  the  door  was  shut  between  us,  and  they  had  a  bright 
fire,  which  I  could  not  see,  but  the  light  it  sent  up  amongst  the 
varnished  rafters  and  beams,  which  crossed  each  other  in  al- 
most as  intricate  and  fantastic  a  manner  as  I  have  seen  the 
under-bouglis  of  a  large  beech-tree  withered  by  the  depth  of 
shade  above,  produced  the  most  beautiful  effect  that  can  be 
.{onceived.  It  was  like  what  I  should  suppose  an  underground 
lave  or  temple  to  be,  with  a  dripping  or  moist  roof,  and  the 
moonlight  entering  in  upon  it  by  some  means  or  other;  and 
yet  the  colors  were  more  like  those  of  melted  gems.  I  lay 
looking  up  till  the  light  of  the  fire  faded  away,  and  the  man 
and  his  wife  and  child  had  crept  into  their  bod  at  the  other  end 
')f  the  room:  I  did  not  sleep  much,  but  passed  a  comfortable 
liyht ;  Air  my  bed,  though  hard,  was  warm  and  clean :   the 


NOTES.  339 

anusnalness  of  my  situation  prevented  me  from  sleepiiig.  I 
could  hear  the  waves  beat  against  the  shore  of  the  lake ;  a  lit- 
tle rill  close  to  the  door  made  a  much  louder  noise,  and,  when 
1  sat  up  in  mj'  bed,  I  could  see  the  lake  through  an  open  win- 
dow-place at  the  bed's  head.  Add  to  this,  it  rained  all  night. 
I  was  less  occupied  by  remembrance  of  the  Trosachs,  beauti- 
ful as  they  were,  than  the  vision  of  the  Highland  hut,  which  I 
could  not  get  out  of  my  head ;  I  thought  of  the  Faery-land  of 
Spenser,  and  what  I  had  read  in  romance  at  other  times ;  and 
then  what  a  feast  it  would  be  for  a  London  Pantomime-maker 
could  he  but  transplant  it  to  Drury  Lane,  with  all  its  beautiful 
colors !  "  —  MS. 

Page  290. 
'■'■Once  on  those  steeps  I  roarned." 

The  following  is  from  the  same  MS.,  and  gives  an  account  of 
the  visit  to  Bothv/ell  Castle  here  alluded  to:  — 

"  It  was  exceedingly  delightful  to  enter  thus  unexpectedly 
upon  such  a  beautiful  region.  The  castle  stands  nobly,  over- 
looking the  Clyde.  When  we  came  up  to  it,  I  was  hurt  to  see 
that  flower-borders  had  taken  place  of  the  natural  overgrow- 
ings  of  the  ruin,  the  scattered  stones,  and  wild  plants.  It  is  a 
large  and  gi'and  pile  of  red  freestone,  harmonizing  perfectly 
with  the  rocks  of  the  river,  from  which,  no  doubt,  it  has  been 
hewn.  ^V^len  I  was  a  little  accustomed  to  the  unnaturalness 
of  a  modern  gardei,  I  could  not  help  admiring  the  excessive 
beauty  and  luxuriance  of  some  of  the  plants,  particularly  the 
purple -flowered  clematis,  and  a  broad-leafed  creeping  plant 
without  flowers,  which  scrambled  up  the  castle  wall,  along 
with  the  ivy,  and  spread  its  vine-like  branches  so  lavishly  that 
it  seemed  to  be  in  its  natural  situation,  and  one  could  not  ..elp 
thinking  that,  though  not  self-planted  among  the  ruins  of  this 
country,  it  must  somewhere  have  its  native  abode  in  such 
»laces.  If  Bothwell  Castle  had  not  been  close  to  the  Douglas 
mansion,  we  should  have  been  disgusted  with  the  possessor's 
miserable  conception  of  adorning  such  a  venerable  ruin ;  but 
it  is  so  very  near  to  the  house,  that  of  necessity  the  pleasure 
:;roui'.ds  must  have  extended  beyond  it,  and  perhaps  the  neat- 


S40  NOTES. 

ness  of  a  shaven  lawn  and  the  complete  desolation  natural  to 
a  ruin  might  have  made  an  unpleasing  contrast;  and,  besides 
being  within  the  precincts  of  the  pleasure-grounds,  and  so  very 
near  to  the  dwelhng  of  a  noble  family,  it  hiis  forfeited,  in  some 
degree,  its  independent  majesty,  and  becomes  a  tributary  to 
the  mansion:  its  solitude  being  interrupted,  it  has  no  longer 
the  command  over  the  mind  in  sending  it  back  into  past  times, 
or  excluding  the  ordinary  feelings  which  we  bear  about  us  in 
daily  life.     We  had  then  only  to  regret  that  the  castle  and  the 
house  were  so  near  to  each  other;  and  it  was  impossible  Tiot  to 
regret  it;  for  the  ruin  presides  in  state  over  the  river,  far  from 
city  or  town,  as  if  it  might  Ijave  a  peculiar  privilege  to  pre- 
serve its  memorials  of  past  ages,  and  maintain  its  own  charac- 
ter for  centuries  to  come.     We  sat  upon  a  bench  under  the 
high  trees,  and  had  beautiful  views  of  the  different  reaches  of 
the  river,  above  and  below.     On  the  opposite  bank,  which  is 
fine!}'  wooded  with  elm  and  other  trees,  are  the  remains  of  a 
priory  built  upon  a  rock;  and  rock  and  ruin  are  so  blended, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  separate  the  one  from  the  other.     Noth- 
ing can  be  more  beautiful  than  tlie  little  remnant  of  this  holy 
place;  elra-trees  (for  we  were  near  enough  to  distinguish  them 
by  their  branches)  grow  out  of  the  walls,  and  overshadow  a 
small  but  very  elegant  window.     It  can  scar'raly  be  conceived 
what  a  grace  the  castle  and  priory  impart  to  each  other ;  and 
the  river  Clyde  flows  on,  smooth  and  unruffled,  below,  seeming 
to  my  thoughts  more  in  harmony  with  the  sober  and  stately 
images  of  former  times,  than  if  it  had  roared  over  a  rocky 
channel,  forcing  its  sound  upon  the  ear.     It  blended  gently 
with  the  warbling  of  the  smaller  birds,  and  the  chattering  of 
the  larger  ones,  that  had  made  their  nests  in  the  ruins.    In  this 
fortress  the  chief  of  the  Knglish  nobility  were  confined  after  the 
battle  of  B'lnnockburn.    If  a  man  is  to  be  a  prisoner,  he  scarce- 
ly could  h  ive  a  more  pleasant  place  to  solace  his  captivity; 
but  I  thought  that,  for  close  confinement,  I  should  prefer  the 
banks  of  a  lake,  or  the  sea-side.     Tlie  greatest  charm  of  a  brook 
or  river  is  in  the  liberty  to  pursue  it  through  its  windings:  you 
can  then  take  it  in  whatever  mood  you  like;  silent  or  noisy, 
Bl)()rtive  or  quiet.     The  beauties  of  a  brook  or  river  must  be 
tough  t,  and  tlie  pleasure  is  in  going  in  search  of  thc:n;  thoso 


NOTES.  841 

5f  a  lake  or  of  the  sea  come  to  you  of  themselves.  These  rude 
warriors  cared  little,  perhaps,  about  either;  and  yet,  if  one  may 
judge  from  the  writings  of  Chaucer,  and  from  the  old  romances, 
more  interesting  passions  were  connected  with  natural  objects 
in  the  daj's  of  chivalry  than  now ;  though  going  in  search  cf 
scenery,  as  it  is  called,  had  not  then  been  thought  of.  I  had 
previously  heard  nothing  of  Bothwell  Castle,  at  least  nothing 
that  I  remembered ;  therefore,  perhaps,  my  pleasure  was  great- 
er, compared  with  what  I  received  elsewhere,  than  othere  might 
feel."  —  MS.  Journal. 

Page  293. 

"■HarVa-horn  Tree:' 

"  In  the  time  of  the  first  Robert  de  Clifford,  in  the  year  1333 
or  1334,  Edward  Baliol  king  of  Scotland  came  into  Westmore- 
land, and  stayed  some  time  with  the  said  Robert  at  his  castles 
of  Appleby,  Brougham,  and  Pendragon.  And  during  that  time 
they  ran  a  stag  by  a  single  greyhound  out  of  Whinfell  Park  to 
Redkirk,  in  Scotland,  and  back  again  to  this  place;  where, 
being  both  spent,  the  stag  leaped  over  the  pales,  but  died  on 
the  other  side;  and  the  greyhound,  attempting  to  leap,  fell, 
and  died  on  the  contrary  side.  In  memory  of  tliis  fact  the 
stag's  horns  were  nailed  upon  a  tree  just  by,  and  (the  dog  be- 
ing named  Hercules)  this  rhythm  was  made  upon  them :  — 

•  Hercules  killed  Hart  a  greese, 
And  Hart  a  greese  killed  Hercules.' 

The  tree  to  this  day  bears  the  name  of  Hart's-horn  Tree.  The 
horns  in  process  of  time  were  almost  grown  over  by  the  growth 
of  the  tree,  and  another  pair  was  put  up  m  their  place."  — 
Nicholson  and  Bwr^'s  History  of  JVestmoi'eland  and  Cumber- 
land. 

The  tree  has  now  disappeared,  but  I  well  remember  its  im- 
posing appearance  as  it  stood,  in  a  decayed  state,  by  the  side 
of  the  high  road  leading  from  Penrith  to  Appleby.     This  whole 
neighborhood  abounds  in  interesting  traditions  and  vestiges  of 
jitiquitj';  viz.  JuUan's  Bower;  Brougham  and  Penrilh  Cas- 


342  NOTES. 

ties;  Penrith  Beacon,  find  the  curious  remains  in  Penrith 
Churchyard;  Arthur's  Round  Table,  and,  close  by,  May- 
urough;  the  excavation,  called  the  Giant's  Cave,  on  thebanko 
of  the  Emont;  Long  Meg  and  her  Daughters,  near  Ede:i,  &<•., 


END    OF  VOL.  Itr 


THE    WHITE    DOE   OF    RYLSTONE ; 

OR, 
THE  FATE   OF   THE  NORTONS. 


ADVERTISEJIENT. 


During  the  Summer  of  1807, 1  visited,  for  the  first  time, 
the  beautiful  country  that  surrounds  Bolton  Priory,  in  Tork 
sliire;  and  the  Poem  of  the  White  Doe,  founded  upon  a  tra- 
dirion  connected  with  that  place,  was  composed  at  the  close  of 
the  same  year. 


DEDICATION. 


In  trellised  shed  with  clustering  roses  gay, 

And,  Mary  !  oft  beside  our  blazing  fire. 

When  years  of  wedded  life  were  as  a  day 

Whose  cun-ent  answers  to  the  heart's  desire. 

Did  we  together  i-ead  in  Spenser's  Lay 

How  Una,  sad  of  soul,  —  in  sad  attire,  — 

The  gentle  Una,  of  celestial  birth. 

To  seek  her  Ivnight  went  wandermg  o'er  the  earth. 

Ah,  then,  Beloved !  pleasing  wp.s  the  smart, 
And  the  tear  precious  in  compassion  shed 
For  her,  who,  pierced  by  sorrow's  thrilling  dart, 
Did  meekly  bear  the  pang  unmerited, 

VOL.    IV.  1 


POEMS    OF  THE   IJIA-GINATION. 

Meek  as  tliat  emblem  of  licr  lowly  hearf, 
The  milk-wliitc  Lamb  which  in  a  line  she  led,-- 
And  faithful,  loyal  in  her  innocence, 
Like  the  brave  Lion  slain  in  her  defence. 

Notes  could  we  hear  as  of  a  t'aerj'  snoU 
Attuned  to  words  with  sacred  wisdom  fraught; 
Free  Fancy  prized  each  specious  miracle, 
And  all  its  finer  inspiration  caught; 
Till,  in  the  bosom  of  our  rustic  Cell, 
We  by  a  lamentable  clnuige  were  taught 
That  "  bliss  with  mortal  Man  may  not  abide  " : 
How  nearly  joy  and  sorrow  are  allied ! 

For  us  the  stream  of  fiction  ceased  to  flow, 
For  us  the  voice  of  melody  was  mute. 
—  But,  as  soft  gales  dissolve  the  dreary  snow 
And  give  the  timid  herbage  leave  to  shoot. 
Heaven's  breathing  influence  failed  not  to  bestow 
A  timely  promise  of  unlooked-for  fruit, 
Fair  fmit  of  pleasure  and  serene  content 
From  blossoms  wild  of  fancies  innocent. 

It  soothed  us,  it  beguiled  us,  then,  to  hear 
Once  more  of  troubles  wrought  by  magic  spell; 
And  griefs  whose  aery  motion  comes  not  near 
The  pangs  that  tempt  the  Spirit  to  rebel: 
Tlien,  with  mild  Una  in  her  sober  cheer. 
High  over  hill  and  low  adown  the  dell 
Again  we  wandered,  willing  to  partake 
All  that  she  sufl'cred  for  her  dear  Lord's  sake. 

Then,  too,  this  Song  of  mine  once  more  could  pleaso, 

Where  anguish,  strange  as  dreams  of  restless  sleep, 

Is  tempered  and  allayed  by  sympathies 

Aloft  asccndnig,  and  descending  tleep. 

Even  to  the  inferior  Kinds;  whom  forest-trees 

Protect  from  beating  sunbeams,  and  the  sweep 

Of  the  sharp  winds ;  —  fair  Creatures !  —  to  whom  Heavci 

A  calm  and  sinless  life,  with  love,  hath  given 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RVLSTONE. 

This  tragic  Story  cheered  us;  for  it  spe;iks 

Of  female  patience  winning  firm  repose ; 

And,  of  the  recompense  that  conscience  seeks, 

A  bright,  encouraging  example  shows; 

Needful  when  o'er  wide  realms  the  tempest  breaks, 

Needful  amid  life's  ordinary  woes;  — 

Hence,  not  for  them  unfitted  who  would  bless 

A  happy  hour  with  holier  happiness. 

He  serves  the  Pluses  erringly  and  ill, 
Whose  aim  is  pleasure  light  and  fugitive: 
0  that  my  mind  were  equal  to  fulfil 
The  comprehensive  mandate  which  they  give, — 
Vain  aspiration  of  an  earnest  will ! 
Yet  in  this  moral  Strain  a  power  may  live. 
Beloved  Wife !  such  solace  to  impart 
As  it  hath  yielded  to  thy  tender  heart. 
Rtual  Mount,  Westmokeland, 
April  20,  1815. 


"  Action  is  transitory,  —  a  step,  a  blow, 
The  motion  of  a  muscle,  —  this  way  or  that,  — 
'T  is  done;  and  in  the  after-vacancy 
We  wonder  at  ourselves  like  men  betrayed : 
Suffering  is  permanent,  obscure  and  dark. 
And  has  the  nature  of  infinity. 
Yet  through  that  darkness  (infinite  though  it  seem 
And  irremovable)  gracious  openings  lie. 
By  which  the  soul  —  with  patient  steps  of  thought 
Now  toiling,  wafted  now  on  wings  of  prayer  — 
May  pass  in  hope,  and,  though  from  mortal  bonds 
Yet  undelivered,  rise  with  sure  ascent 
Even  to  the  fountain-head  of  peace  divuie." 


PObMS    OF    Tin:    IMAGINATION. 


THE   WHITE   DOE   OF  RYLSTONE. 


"  They  that  deny  a  God,  destroy  Man's  nobility :  for  cer- 
tainly Man  is  of  kiiin  to  the  Beast  by  his*  Bod}-;  and  if  he  be 
not  of  kinn  to  God  by  his  Spirit,  he  is  a  base  ignoble  Creature. 
It  destroys  Uliewise  Magnanimity,  and  tlie  raising  of  humane 
Nature :  for  take  an  example  of  a  Dogg,  and  niark  what  a 
generosity  and  courage  lie  will  put  on,  when  he  finds  liimself 
maintained  bj'  a  Man,  who  to  him  is  instead  of  a  God,  or  Me- 
lior  Natura.  Which  courage  is  manifestly  such,  as  that  Crea- 
ture without  that  confidence  of  a  better  5tature  than  his  own 
could  never  attain.  So  Man,  when  he  restetii  and  assureth 
liimself  upon  Di\ine  protection  and  favour,  gathercth  a  force 
snd  faith  which  human  Nature  in  itself  could  not  obtain." 

Loicu  Bacon. 


CANTO    FIRST. 

From  Bolton's  old  monastic  tower 
The  bells  ring  loud  witli  gladsome  power  ; 
The  sun  shines  bright ;  the  fields  are  gay 
With  people  in  their  best  array 
Of  stole  and  doublet,  hood  and  scarf, 
Along  the  banks  of  crystal  Wharf, 
Through  the  Vale  retired  and  lowly, 
Ti'ooping  to  that  summons  holy. 
And,  up  among  the  moorland.^,  see 
What  sprinklings  of  blithe  company  ! 
Of  lasses  and  of  shepherd  grooms, 
That  down  the  steep  hills  force  tlieir  way 
Like  cattle  through  the  l)udtling  brooms : 
Path,  or  no  path,  what  cMre  they? 
And  tiius  in  joyous  mood  tliey  hie 
To  Bolton's  mouldering  Priory. 


IHE    AVHITE    DOE    OF    RTLSTONE. 

What  would  they  there  ?  —  full  fifty  years 
"^liat  sumptuous  Pile,  with  all  its  Peers, 
Too  harshly  hath  been  doomed  to  taste 
The  bitterness  of  wrong  and  waste : 
Its  courts  are  ravaged  ;  but  the  tower 
Is  standing  with  a  voice  of  power, 
That  ancient  voice  which  wont  to  call 
To  mass  or  some  high  festival ; 
And  in  the  shattered  fabric's  heart 
Remaineth  one  protected  part; 
A  Chapel,  like  a  wild-bird's  nest, 
Closely  embowered  and  trimly  drest ; 
And  thither  young  and  old  repair, 
This  Sabbath-day,  for  praise  and  prayer. 

Fast  the  churchyard  fills  ;  —  anon, 
Look  again,  and  they  all  are  gone, — 
The  cluster  round  the  porch,  and  thr  folk 
Who  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  Pi-ior's  Oak  ! 
And  scarcely  have  they  disappeared 
Ere  the  prelusive  hymn  is  heard  :  — 
With  one  consent  the  people  rejoice. 
Filling  the  church  with  a  lofty  voice ! 
They  sing  a  service  which  they  feel : 
For  't  is  the  sunrise  now  of  zeal,  — 
Of  a  pure  faith  the  vernal  prime,  — 
In  great  Eliza's  golden  time. 

A  moment  ends  the  fervent  din, 
And  all  is  hushed,  without  and  within  ; 
For  though  the  priest,  more  tranquilly, 


POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Recites  the  holy  liturgy, 

Tlie  only  voice  which  you  can  hear 

Is  the  river  murmurincr  near. 

—  When  soft !  —  the  dusky  trees  between, 

And  down  the  path  through  the  open  green 

Where  is  no  living  thing  to  be  seen,  — 

And  through  yon  gateway,  where  is  found, 

Beneath  the  arch  with  ivy  bound, 

Free  entrance  to  the  churchyard  ground,  — 

Comes  gliding  in  Avith  lovely  gleam. 

Comes  gliding  in  serene  and  slow, 

Soft  and  silent  as  a  dream, 

A  solitary  Doe  ! 

White  she  is  as  lilv  of  June, 

And  beauteous  as  the  silver  Moon 

When  out  of  sight  the  clouds  are  driven 

And  she  is  left  alone  in  heaven  ; 

Or  like  a  ship  some  gentle  day 

In  sunshine  sailing  far  away, 

A  glittering  ship,  that  hath  the  plain 

Of  ocean  for  her  own  domain. 

Lie  silent  in  your  graves,  ye  dead  ! 
Lie  quiet  in  your  churchyard  bed ! 
Ye  living,  tend  your  holy  cares  ; 
Ye  niuhitude,  pursue  your  prayers  ; 
And  blame  not  me  if  my  heart  and  sight 
Are  occupied  with  one  delight  ! 
'Tis  a  work  for  Sabbath  hours 
If  I  witli  this  briglit  Creature  go  : 
Whether  she  be  of  forest  bovvers. 


TIIL    Win;,;    DuK    of    UrLSTONE. 

From  the  bowers  of  earth  below  ; 

Or  a  Spirit  for  one  day  given, 

A  pledge  of  grace  from  purest  heaven 

What  harmonious  pensive  changes 
Wait  upon  her  as  she  ranges 
Round  and  through  this  Pile  of  state 
Overthrown  and  desolate ! 
Now  a  step  or  two  her  way 
Leads  through  space  of  open  day, 
Where  the  enamored  sunny  light 
Brightens  ber  that  was  so  bright ; 
Now  doth  a  delicate  shadow  fall, 
Falls  upon  her  like  a  breath, 
From  some  lofty  arch  or  wall, 
As  she  passes  underneath  : 
Now  some  gloomy  nook  partakes 
Of  the  glory  that  she  makes,  — 
High-ribbed  vault  of  stone,  or  cell, 
With  perfect  cunning  framed  as  well 
Of  stone,  and  ivy,  and  the  spread 
Of  the  elder's  bushy  head  ; 
Some  jealous  and  forbidding  cell, 
That  doth  the  living  stars  repel. 
And  where  no  tiower  hath  leave  to  dwelt 

The  presence  of  this  wandering  Doe 
Fills  many  a  damp,  obscure  recess 
With  lustre  of  a  saintly  show  ; 
And,  reappearing,  she  no  less 


POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION*. 

Sheds  on  the  flowers  that  round  her  blow 

A  more  than  sunny  liveliness. 

But  say,  among  these  holy  places, 

Which  thus  assiduously  she  i)aces, 

Comes  she  with  a  votary's  task, 

Rite  to  perfoi-m,  or  boon  to  ask  ? 

Fair  Pilgrim  !  harbors  she  a  sense 

Of  sorrow,  or  of  reverence  ? 

Can  she  be  grieved  for  choir  or  shrine. 

Crushed  as  if  bv  wrath  divine  ? 

For  what  survives  of  house  where  God 

Was  worshipped,  or  where  Man  abode  ; 

For  old  magnificence  undone  ; 

Or  for  the  gentler  work  begun 

By  Nature,  softening  and  concealing, 

And  busy  with  a  hand  of  healing  ? 

INIourns  she  for  lordly  chamber's  hearth, 

That  to  the  sapling  a-li  gives  birth  ; 

For  dormitory's  length  laid  bare 

Where  the  wild  rose  blossoms  fair  ; 

Or  altar,  whence  the  cross  was  rent. 

Now  rich  with  mossy  ornament  ? 

—  She  sees  a  warrior  carved  in  stone. 

Among  the  thick  weeds,  stretched  alone ; 

A  warrior,  with  his  shield  of  pride 

Cleaving  humbly  to  his  side, 

And  hands  in  resignation  prest, 

l*alm  to  palm,  on  his  tranquil  breast; 

As  little  she  regards  the  sight 

A.S  a  common  creature  might : 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    KYLSTONE. 

If  she  be  doomed  to  inward  care, 
Or  service,  it  must  lie  elsewhere. 

—  But  hers  are  eyes  serenely  bright, 
And  on  she  moves,  —  with  pace  how  light ! 
Nor  spares  to  stoop  her  head,  and  taste 
The  dewy  turf  with  flowers  bestrown  ; 
And  thus  she  fares,  until  at  last 

Beside  the  ridge  of  grassy  grave 

In  quietness  she  lays  her  down  ; 

Gentle  as  a  weary  wave 

Sinks,  wlien  the  summer  breeze  hath  died. 

Against  an  anchored  vessel's  side  ; 

Even  so,  without  distress,  doth  she 

Lie  down  in  peace,  and  lovingly. 

The  day  is  placid  in  its  going, 
To  a  lingering  motion  bound, 
Like  the  crystal  stream  now  dowing 
With  its  softest  summer  sound  : 
So  the  balmy  minutes  pass, 
AVhile  this  radiant  Creature  lies 
Couched  upon  the  dewy  grass. 
Pensively,  with  downcast  eyes. 

—  But  now  again  the  people  raise 
With  awful  cheer  a  voice  of  praise  ; 
It  is  the  last,  the  parting  song ; 

And  fi-om  the  temple  forth  they  throng, 
And  quickly  spread  themselves  abroad, 
While  each  pursues  his  several  road. 
But  some,  —  a  variegated  band 


10  POEMS    OF    THE    I1IAG1NA.T10N. 

Of  middle-aged,  and  old,  and  young, 

And  little  children  by  the  hand 

Upon  their  leading  mothers  hung,  — 

With  mute  obeisance  gladly  paid, 

Turn  towards  the  spot,  where,  full  in  view, 

The  white  Doe,  to  her  service  true, 

Her  Sabbath  couch  has  made. 

It  was  a  solitary  mound  ; 
Which  two  spears'  lengtii  of  level  ground 
Did  from  all  other  graves  divide  : 
As  if  in  some  respect  of  pride  ; 
Or  melancholy's  sickly  mood. 
Still  shy  of  human  neighborhood  ; 
Or  guilt,  that  humbly  would  express 
A  penitential  loneliness. 

"  Look,  there  she  is,  my  Child  !  draw  near  ; 
She  fears  not,  wherefore  should  we  fear? 
She  means  no  harm  "  ;  —  but  still  the  Boy, 
To  whom  the  words  were  softly  said. 
Hung  back,  a;id  smiled,  and  blushed  for  joy, 
A  shame-faced  blush  of  glowing  red  ! 
Again  the  Mother  whispered  low, 
"  Now  you  have  seen  the  famous  Doe  ; 
From  Rylstone  she  hath  found  her  way 
Over  the  liills  this  Sabbath  day  ; 
Her  work,  whate'er  it  be,  is  done. 
And  she  will  depart  when  we  are  gone  ; 
Thus  doth  she  keep,  from  year  to  year. 
Her  Sabbath  inoniing,  foul  or  fair  " 


ThE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RTLSTONE.  11 

Blight  was  the  Crf ature.  as  in  diearas 
The  Boy  had  seen  her,  yea,  more  biiglit ; 
But  is  she  truly  what  she  seems  ? 
He  asks  with  insecure  dehght. 
Asks  of  himself  aiid  doubts,  —  and  still 
The  doubt  returns  against  his  will : 
Though  he,  and  all  the  standers-by, 
Could  tell  a  tragic  history 
Of  facts  divulged,  wherein  appear 
Substantial  motive,  reason  clear, 
Why  thus  the  milk-white  Doe  is  found 
Couchaiit  beside  that  lonely  mound  ; 
And  why  she  duly  loves  to  pace 
The  circuit  of  this  hallowed  place. 
Nor  to  the  Child's  inquiring  mind 
Is  such  perplexity  confined  : 
For,  spite  of  sober  Truth  that  sees 
A  world  of  fixed  remembrances 
Which  to  this  mystery  belong. 
If,  undeceived,  my  skill  can  trace 
The  characters  of  every  face, 
There  lack  not  strange  delusion  here. 
Conjecture  vague,  and  idle  fear. 
And  superstitious  fancies  strong, 
Which  do  ( he  gentle  creature  wrong. 

That  bearded,  staff-supported  Sire,  — ■ 
Who  in  his  boyhood  often  fed 
Full  cheerily  on  convent  bread 
And  heard  old  tales  by  the  convent  fire, 


12  POEMS    OF    THE    IiMAGINATION 

And  to  his  grave  will  go  with  scars, 

Kelics  of  long  and  distant  wars,  — 

That  Old  Man,  studious  to  expound 

The  spectacle^  is  mounting  high 

To  days  of  dim  antiquity  ; 

When  Lady  Aaliza  mourned 

Her  Son,  and  felt  in  her  despair 

The  pang  of  unavailing  prayer  ; 

Her  Son  in  Wharf's  abysses  drowned, 

The  noble  Boy  of  Egremound. 

Pl-ora  which  aflliction,  —  when  the  grace 

Of  God  had  in  her  heart  found  place,  — 

A  pious  structure,  fair  to  see, 

Rose  up,  this  stately  Priory  ! 

The  Lady's  work  ;  —  but  now  laid  low  ; 

To  the  grief  of  her  soul,  that  doth  come  and  go, 

In  the  beautiful  form  of  this  innocent  Doe  : 

Wliich,  though  seemingly  doomed  in  its  breast  tc 

sustain 
A  softened  remembrance  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
Is  spotless,  and  holy,  and  gentle,  and  bright ; 
And  glides  o'er  the  earth  like  an  angel  of  light. 

Pass,  pass  who  will,  yon  chantry  door  ; 
And  ilirough  the  chink  in  the  fractured  floor 
Look  down,  and  see  a  griesly  sight ; 
A  vault  where  the  bodies  are  buried  upright  I 
There,  face  by  face,  and  hand  by  hand, 
riie  Claphams  and  Mauleverers  stand  ; 
And,  in  his  place,  among  son  and  sire. 


THE    "WHITE    DOE    OF    RTLSTONE.  13 

Is  John  de  Clapham,  that  fierce  Esquire, 

A  valiant  man,  and  a  name  of  dread 

In  the  ruthless  wars  of  the  White  and  Red  ; 

Who  dragged  Earl  Pembroke  from  Banbury  church 

And  smote  off" his  head  on  the  stones  of  the  porch  ! 

Look  down  among  them,  if  you  dare  ; 

Oft  does  the  White  Doe  loiter  there, 

Prying  into  the  darksome  rent  ; 

Nor  can  it  be  with  good  intent : 

So  thinks  that  Dame  of  haughty  air. 

Who  hath  a  Page  her  Book  to  hold. 

And  wears  a  frontlet  edged  with  gold. 

Harsii  thoughts  with  her  high  mood  agree,  — 

Who  counts  among  her  ancestry 

Earl  Pembroke,  slain  so  impiously  ! 

That  slender  Youth,  a  scholar  pale. 
From  Oxford  come  to  his  native  vale, 
lie  aL<o  hath  his  own  conceit : 
It  is,  thinks  he,  the  gracious  Fairy, 
'\\''ho  loved  the  Shepherd-lord  to  meet 
In  his  wanderino;s  solitary  : 
Wild  notes  she  in  his  hearing  sang. 
A  song  of  Nature's  hidden  powers  ; 
That  whistled  like  the  wind,  and  rang 
Among  the  rocks  and  holly  bowers. 
'T  was  said  that  she  all  shapes  could  we^r 
And  oftentimes  before  him  stood, 
A.mid  the  trees  of  some  thick  wood. 
In  semblance  of  a  lady  fair  ; 


14  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  taught  him  signs,  and  showed  him  sights, 

In  Craven's  dens,  on  Cumbrian  heights  ; 

When  under  cloud  of  fear  he  lay, 

A  shepherd  clad  in  homely  gray  ; 

Nor  left  him  at  his  later  day. 

And  hence,  when  he,  with  spear  and  shield, 

Rode  full  of  years  to  Flodden  iield, 

His  eye  could  see  the  hidden  spring, 

And  how  the  current  was  to  flow  ; 

Tlie  fatal  end  of  Scotland's  King, 

And  all  that  hopeless  overthrow. 

But  not  in  wars  did  he  delight. 

This  Clifford  wished  for  worthier  might ; 

Nor  in  broad  pomp,  or  courtly  state  ; 

Ilim  his  own  thoughts  did  elevate, — 

Most  happy  in  the  shy  recess 

Of  Barden's  lowly  quietness. 

And  choice  of  studious  friends  had  he 

Of  Bolton's  dear  fraternity  ; 

Who,  standing  on  this  old  church  tower, 

In  many  a  calm,  propitious  hour. 

Perused,  with  him,  the  starry  sky  ; 

Or,  in  their  cells,  with  him  did  pry 

For  other  lore,  —  by  keen  desire 

Ursred  to  close  toil  with  chemic  fire ; 

In  quest,  belike,  of  transmutations 

Rich  as  the  mine's  most  briglit  creatioiv^ 

liut  they  and  their  good  works  are  fled, 

And  nil  is  now  disquieted,  — 

And  peace  is  none,  for  living  or  dead! 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  I  I 

Ah,  pensive  Scholar,  think  not  so, 
But  look  again  at  the  radiant  Doe  ! 
What  quiet  watch  she  seems  to  keep, 
Alone,  beside  that  grassy  heap  ! 
Why  mention  other  thoughts  unmeet 
For  vision  so  composed  and  sweet  ? 
Wliile  stand  the  people  in  a  ring, 
Gazing,  doubting,  questioning ; 
Yea,  many  overcome,  in  spite 
Of  recollections  clear  and  bright ; 
Which  yet  do  unto  some  impart 
An  undisturbed  repose  of  heart. 
And  all  the  assembly  own  a  law 
Of  orderly  respect  and  awe  ; 
But  see,  —  they  vanish  one  by  one, 
And,  last,  the  Doe  herself  is  gone. 

Harp  !  we  have  been  full  long  beguiled 
By  vague  thoughts,  lured  by  fancies  wild  ; 
To  which,  with  no  reluctant  strings. 
Thou  hast  attuned  thy  murmurings  ; 
And  now  before  this  Pile  we  stand 
In  solitude,  and  utter  peace  : 
But,  Harp  !  thy  murmurs  may  not  cea-^e,  — 
A  Spirit,  with  his  angelic  wings. 
In  soft  and  breeze-like  visitings, 
Has  touched  thee,  —  and  a  Spirit's  hand  ; 
A  voice  is  with  us,  —  a  command 
To  chant,  in  strains  of  heavenly  glory, 
A  tale  of  teai'S,  a  mortal  storv  ! 


I  >  POEMS    OF    Tin:    IMAGINATION. 


CANTO    SECOND. 

Ihe  Harp  in  lowliness  obeyed  ; 

And  first  we  sung  of  the  greenwood  shade 

And  a  solitary  Maid  ; 

Beginning,  where  the  song  must  end, 

With  her,  and  with  her  sylvan  Friend  ; 

The  Friend,  who  stood  before  her  sight. 

Her  only  unextinguished  light ; 

Her  last  companion  in  a  dearth 

Of  love,  upon  a  hopeless  earth. 

For  she  it  was,  this  Maid,  who  wrought 
Meekly,  with  foreboding  thought, 
In  vermeil  colors  and  in  gold. 
An  unblest  work  ;  which,  standing  by, 
Her  Father  did  with  joy  behold, 
Exulting  in  its  imagery  ; 
A  Banner,  fashioned  to  fulfil 
Too  perfectly  his  headstrong  will  : 
For  on  this  Banner  had  her  hand 
Embroidered  (such  her  Sire's  command) 
The  sacred  Cross  ;  and  figured  there 
The  five  dear  wounds  our  Lord  did  bear; 
Full  soon  to  be  uplifted  high. 
And  float  in  rueful  company  ! 

It  was  the  time  when  P2ngland's  Queen 
Twelve  years  liad  niigned,  a  Sovereign  dread 


THK    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  17 

•Nor  yet  the  re->;tless  crown  had  been 
Disturbed  upon  her  virgin  head  ; 
But  now  the  inly-working  North 
Was  ripe  to  send  its  thousands  forth, 
A  potent  vassalage,  to  fight 
In  Percy's  and  in  Neville's  right. 
Two  Earls  fast  leagued  in  discontent, 
Who  gave  their  wishes  open  vent ; 
And  boldly  urged  a  general  plea. 
The  rites  of  ancient  piety 
To  be  triumphantly  restored, 
By  the  stern  justice  of  the  sword  ! 
And  that  same  Banner  on  whose  breast 
The  blameless  Lady  had  exprest 
Memorials  chosen  to  give  life 
And  sunshine  to  a  dangerous  strife  ; 
That  Banner,  waiting  for  the  Call, 
Stood  quietly  in  Rjdstone  hall. 

It  came  ;  and  Francis  Norton  said, 
"  O  Father  !  rise  not  in  this  fray,  — 
The  hairs  are  white  upon  your  head  ; 
Dear  Father,  hear  me  when  I  say 
It  is  for  you  too  late  a  day  ! 
Bethink  you  of  your  own  good  name  i 
A  just  and  gracious  queen  have  we, 
A  pure  religion,  and  the  claim 
<  )f  peace  on  our  humaTiity.  — 
*Ti»  meet  that  I  endure  your  scorn ; 
1  am  your  son,  your  eldest  born  ; 

VOL.    1\'.  2 


13  rOKJIS    Ol'     THK    IMAGINATION. 

But  not  for  lordship  or  for  land, 
My  Father,  do  I  clasp  your  knees  ; 
The  Banner  touch  not,  stay  your  hand, 
This  multitude  of  men  disband, 
And  live  at  home  in  blameless  ease  ; 
For  these  my  brethren's  sake,  for  me ; 
And,  most  of  all,  for  Emily  !  " 

Tumultuous  noises  filled  the  hall ; 
And  scarcely  could  the  Father  liear 
That  name,  —  pronounced  with  a  dying  full,  - 
The  name  of  his  only  Dau2;hter  dear, 
As  on  the  Banner  which  stood  near 
He  glanced  a  look  of  holy  pride, 
And  his  moist  eyes  were  glorified  ; 
Then  did  he  seize  the  staff,  and  say : 
"  Thou,  Richard,  bear'st  thy  father's  name  : 
Keep  thou  tliis  ensign  till  the  day 
When  I  of  thee  requii-e  the  same  : 
Thy  place  be  on  my  better  ham^  ;  — 
And  seven  as  true  as  thou,  I  see, 
"Will  cleave  fo  this  good  cause  and  me." 
He  spake,  and  eight  brave  sons  straightway 
All  followed  him,  a  gallant  band  ! 

Thus,  with  his  sons,  when  fortli  he  came. 
The  sight  was  hailed  with  loud  acclaim, 
And  din  of  arms  ami  minstrelsy, 
From  all  his  warlike  tenantrv. 
All  horsed  and  liarnessed  with  liitn  to  ride, — 
A  voice  to  which  the  hills  replied  ! 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    KYLSTONE.  19 

But  Fi-ancis,  in  the  vacant  hall, 
Stood  silent  under  dreary  weight,  — 
A  phantasm,  in  which  roof  and  wall 
Shook,  tottered,  swam  before  his  sight  •, 
A  phantasm  like  a  dream  of  night ! 
Thus  overwhelmed,  and  desolate. 
He  found  his  way  to  a  postern-gate ; 
And  when  he  waked,  his  languid  eye 
Was  on  the  calm  and  silent  sky, 
"With  air  about  him  breathing:  sweet. 
And  earth's  green  grass  beneath  his  feet ; 
Nor  did  he  fail  erelong  to  hear 
A  sound  of  military  cheer, 
Faint  —  but  it  reached  that  sheltered  spoi ; 
He  heard,  and  it  disturbed  him  not. 

There  stood  he,  leaning  on  a  lance 
Which  he  had  grasped  unknowingly, 
Had  blindly  grasped  in  that  strong  trance, 
That  dimness  of  heart-agony  ; 
There  stood  he,  cleansed  from  the  despair 
And  sorrow  of  his  fruitless  prayer. 
The  past  he  calmly  hath  reviewed: 
But  where  will  be  the  fortitude 
Of  this  brave  man,  when  he  shall  see 
That  Form  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 
And  know  that  it  is  Emily  ? 

He  saw  her  where  in  open  view 
She  sat  beneath  the  spreading  yew,  — 


W  roEjis  OK   riii:  imagination. 

Hor  head  upon  her  lap,  concealius; 

In  solitude  her  bitter  feeling : 

"  ]\Iight  ever  son  command  a  sire, 

The  act  were  justified  to-day." 

This  to  himself,  —  and  to  the  Maid, 

Whom  now  he  had  approached,  he  said : 

"  Gone  are  they,  —  they  have  their  desire  j 

And  I  with  thee  one  hour  will  stay, 

To  give  thee  comfort  if  I  may." 

She  heard,  but  looked  not  up,  nor  spake ; 
And  sorrow  moved  him  to  partake 
Her  silence  ;  then  his  thoughts  turned  round, 
And  fervent  words  a  passage  found. 

"  Gone  are  they,  bravely,  though  misled ; 
"With  a  dear  Father  at  their  head  ! 
The  Sons  obey  a  natural  lord  ; 
The  Father  had  given  solemn  word 
To  noble  Perov  ;  and  a  force 
Still  stroniier  bends  him  to  his  course. 
This  said,  our  tears  to-day  may  fall 
As  at  an  innocent  funeral. 
In  deep  and  awful  channel  runs 
This  sympathy  of  Sire  and  Sons  ; 
Untried,  our  Brothers  have  been  loved 
With  heart  by  simple  nature  moved ; 
And  now  their  faithfulness  is  proved: 
For  faithful  we  must  call  them,  bearing 
That  soul  of  conscientious  daring. 


Tlir,    M'lIITE    DOE    OF    KYLSTONE.  21 

There  were  they  all  in  circle,  —  there 
Stood  Richard,  Ambrose,  Christopher, 
John  with  a  sword  that  will  not  fail, 
And  Marmaduke  in  fearless  mail, 
And  those  bright  Twins  were  side  by  side ; 
And  there,  by  fresh  hopes  beautified, 
Stood  He,  whose  arm  yet  lacks  the  power 
Of  man,  our  youngest,  fairest  flower  ! 
I,  by  the  right  of  eldest  born. 
And  in  a  second  father's  place, 
Presumed  to  grapple  with  their  scorn, 
And  meet  their  pity  face  to  face ; 
Yea,  trusting  in  God's  holy  aid, 
I  to  my  Father  knelt  and  prayed ; 
And  one,  the  pensive  Marmaduke, 
Methought,  was  yielding  inwardly. 
And  would  have  laid  his  purpose  by. 
But  for  a  glance  of  his  Father's  eye, 
Which  I  myself  could  scarcely  brook. 

"  Then  be  we,  each  and  all,  forgiven ! 
Thou,  chiefly  thou,  my  Sister  dear. 
Whose  pangs  are  registered  in  heaven,  — 
The  stifled  sigh,  the  hidden  tear. 
And  smiles,  that  dared  to  take  their  place, 
Meek  filial  smiles,  upon  thy  face. 
As  that  unhallowed  Banner  grew 
Beneath  a  loving  old  Man's  view. 
Thy  part  is  done,  —  thy  painful  part ; 
Be  thou  then  satisfied  in  heai*t! 


82  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGIXATION. 

A  further,  though  far  easier,  task 

Than  thine  hath  been,  my  duties  ask : 

With  theirs  my  efforts  cannot  blend, 

I  cannot  for  such  cause  contend ; 

Their  aims  I  utterly  forswear ; 

But  I  in  body  will  be  there. 

Unarmed  and  naked  will  I  go, 

Be  at  their  side,  come  weal  or  woe  : 

On  kind  occasions  I  may  wait, 

See,  hear,  obstruct,  or  mitigate. 

Bare  breast  I  take  and  an  empty  hand."  *  — 

Tlierewith  he  tlu*ew  away  the  lance 

Which  he  had  grasped  in  that  strong  trance ; 

Spurned  it,  like  something  that  would  stand 

Between  him  and  the  pure  intent 

Of  love  on  which  his  soul  was  bent. 

"  For  thee,  for  thee,  is  left  the  sense 
Of  trial  past  without  offence 
To  God  or  man  ;  such  innocence, 
Such  consolation,  and  the  excess 
Of  an  unmerited  distress  ; 
In  that  thy  very  strength  must  lie. 
—  0  Sister,  I  could  prophesy  ! 
The  time  is  come  that  rings  the  knell 
Of  all  we  loved,  and  loved  so  well : 
Hope  notliing,  if  I  thus  may  speak 
To  thee,  a  woman,  and  thence  weak  : 

•  See  tlie  Old  Ballad,  —  "  The  Rising  of  the  North.'' 


J 


Tin:    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  23 

Hope  nothing,  I  repeat;   for  we 

Are  doomed  to  perish  utterly  : 

'T  is  meet  that  thou  with  me  divide 

The  thought  while  I  am  by  thy  side, 

Acknowledging  a  grace  in  this, 

A  comfort  in  the  dark  abyss. 

But  look  not  for  me  when  I  am  gone, 

And  be  no  further  wrotight  upon  • 

Farewell  all  wishes,  all  debate, 

All  prayers  for  this  cause,  or  for  that! 

"Weep,  if  that  aid  thee  ;  but  depend 

Upon  no  help  of  outward  friend  ; 

Espouse  thy  doom  at  once,  and  cleave 

To  fortitude  without  reprieve. 

For  we  must  fall,  both  we  and  ours,  — 

This  mansion  and  these  pleasant  bowers, 

Walks,  pools,  and  arbors,  homestead,  hall,  — • 

Our  fate  is  theirs,  will  reach  them  all ; 

The  young  horse  must  forsake  his  manger, 

And  learn  to  glory  in  a  Stranger ; 

The  hawk  forget  his  perch  ;  the  hounJ 

Be  parted  from  his  ancient  ground  : 

The  blast  will  sweep  us  all  away,  — 

One  desolation,  one  decay  ! 

And  even  this  Creature!"  which  words  saying. 

He  pointed  to  a  lovely  Doe, 

A  few  steps  distant,  feeding,  straying ; 

Fair  creature,  and  more  white  than  snow ! 

"  Even  she  will  to  her  peaceful  woods 

Return,  and  to  her  murmuring  floods, 


24  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  be  in  heart  and  soul  the  same 

She  was  before  she  hither  came  ; 

Ere  she  had  learned  to  love  us  all, 

Herself  beloved  in  Rylstone  hall. 

—  But  thou,  my  Sister,  doomed  to  be 

The  last  leaf  on  a  blasted  tree  ; 

If  not  in  vain  we  breathed  the  breath 

Together  of  a  purer  faith  ; 

If  hand  in  hand  we  have  been  led, 

And  thou  (0  happy  thought  this  dayl) 

Not  seldom  foremost  in  tlie  way  ; 

If  on  one  thought  our  minds  have  fed, 

And  we  have  in  one  meaning  read ; 

If,  when  at  home  our  private  weal 

Hath  suffered  from  the  shock  of  zeal, 

Together  we  have  learned  to  prize 

Forbearance  and  self-sacrifice ; 

If  we  like  combatants  have  fared, 

And  for  this  issue  been  prepared ; 

If  thou  art  beautiful,  and  youth 

And  thought  endue  thee  with  all  truth,  - 

Be  strong  ;  —  be  worthy  cf  the  grace 

Of  God,  and  fill  thy  destined  place : 

A  Souk  by  force  of  sorrows  high, 

Uplifted  to  the  purest  sky 

Of  undisturbed  humanity  !  " 

He  ended,  —  or  she  heard  no  more ; 
He  led  lier  from  the  yew-tree  shade, 
And  at  the  mansion's  silent  door 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  25 

He  kissed  the  consecrated  Maid  ; 
And  down  the  valley  then  pursued, 
Alone,  the  armed  Multitude. 


CANTO    THIRD. 

Now  joy  for  you  who  from  the  towers 
Of  Brancepeth  look  in  doubt  and  fear. 
Telling  melancholy  hours ! 
Proclaim  it,  let  your  Masters  hear 
That  Norton  with  his  band  is  near ! 
The  watchmen  from  their  station  high 
Pronounced  the  word, —  and  the  Earls  descry, 
Well  pleased,  the  armed  Company 
Marching  down  the  banks  of  Were. 

Said  fearless  Norton  to  the  pair 
Gone  forth  to  greet  him  on  the  plain : 
"  This  meeting,  noble  Lords  !  looks  fair, 
I  bring  with  me  a  goodly  train ; 
Their  hearts  are  with  you  :  hill  and  dale 
Have  helped  us  :  Ure  we  crossed,  and  Swale, 
And  horse  and  harness  followed,  —  see 
The  best  p^rt  of  their  Yeomanry  ! 
—  Stand  forth,  my  Sons !  —  these  sight  are  mine, 
Whom  to  this  service  I  commend  ; 
Which  way  soe'er  our  fate  inchne. 
These  will  be  faithful  to  the  end  ; 


26  POKMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

Tlicy  are  my  all,"  —  voice  failed  him  lit-re,  - 
"  My  all  save  one,  a  Daughter  dear ! 
Whom  I  have  left,  Love's  mildest  birth, 
The  meekest  Child  on  this  blessed  earth. 
I  had  —  but  these  are  by  my  side, 
Tliese  eight,  and  this  is  a  day  of  pride ! 
The  time  is  ripe.     With  festive  din, 
Lo !  how  the  people  are  flocking  in,  — 
Like  hungry  fowl  to  the  feeder's  hand 
When  snow  lies  heavy  upon  the  land." 

He  spake  bare  truth ;  for  far  and  near 
From  every  side  came  noisy  swarms 
Of  Peasants  in  their  homely  gear  ; 
And,  mixed  with  these,  to  Brancepeth  came 
Grave  Gentry  of  estate  and  name. 
And  Captains  known  for  worth  in  arms ; 
And  i)rayed  the  Earls  in  self-defence 
To  rise,  and  prove  their  innocence.  — 
"  Rise,  nuble  Earls,  put  forth  your  might, 
For  holy  Church,  and  the  People's  right ! " 

The  Norton  fixed,  at  this  demand, 
His  eye  upon  Northumberland, 
And  said  :  "  The  Minds  of  Men  will  owr. 
No  l()}al  rest  while  P^ngland's  Crown 
Remains  without  an  Heir,  the  bait 
Of  strife  and  factions  desperate : 
Who,  paying  deadly  hate  in  kind 
Through  all  things  else,  in  this  can  find 


THF  ^r^ITE  doe   of  rylstone.  27 

A  mutual  hope,  a  common  mind ; 
And  plot,  and  pant  to  overwhelm 
All  ancient  honor  in  the  realm, 

—  Brave  Earls  !  to  whose  heroic  veins 
Our  noblest  blood  is  given  in  trust, 

To  you  a  suffering  State  complains, 

And  ye  must  raise  her  from  the  dust. 

With  wishes  of  still  bolder  scope 

On  you  we  look,  with  dearest  hope ; 

Even  for  our  Altars,  —  for  the  prize 

In  Heaven,  of  life  that  never  dies  ; 

For  the  old  and  holy  Church  we  mourn, 

And  must  in  joy  to  her  return. 

Behold  !  "  —  and  from  his  Son  whose  stand 

Was  on  his  right,  from  that  guardian  hand 

He  took  the  Banner,  and  unfurled 

The  precious  folds,  —  "  behold,"  said  he, 

"  The  ransom  of  a  sinful  world ; 

Lef  this  your  preservation  be ; 

The  wounds  of  hands  and  feet  and  side, 

And  the  sacred  Cross  on  which  Jesus  died. 

—  This  bring  I  from  an  ancient  hearth, 
These  Records  wrought  in  pledge  of  love 
By  hands  of  no  ignoble  birth, 

A  Maid  o'er  whom  the  blessed  Dove 
Vouchsafed  in  gentleness  to  brood 
While  she  the  holy  work  pursued  '' 
"  Uplift  the  Standard  1 "  was  the  cry 
From  all  the  listeners  that  stood  round, 
"  Plant  it,  —  by  this  we  live  or  die." 


28  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGFNATIOX. 

The  Norton  ceased  not  for  that  sound, 
15ut  said:  "The  prayer  which  ye  have  .heard. 
Much  injured  Earls  !  by  these  preferred. 
Is  offered  to  the  Saints,  tlie  sigh 
Of  tens  of  thousands,  secretly." 
"  Uplift  it !  "  cried  once  more  the  Band, 
And  then  a  thoughtful  pause  ensued : 
"  Uplift  it!  "  said  Northumberland,  — 
AVhereat,  from  all  the  multitude 
Who  saw  the  Banner  reared  on  hi<;h 
In  all  its  dread  emblazonry, 
A  voice  of  uttermost  joy  brake  out : 
The  transport  was  I'oUed  down  the  river  of  Were, 
And  Durham,  the  time-honored  Durham,  did  hear. 
And  the  towers  of  Saint  Cuthbert  were  stirred  bj 
the  shout ! 

Now  was  the  North  in  arms :  —  tliey  shine 
In  warlike  trim  from  Tweed  to  Tyne, 
At  Percy's  voice  :  and  Neville  sees 
His  Followers  gathering  in  fiom  Tees, 
From  Were,  and  all  the  little  rills 
Concealed  among  the  forked  hills, — 
Seven  hundred  Knights,  Retainers  all 
Of  Neville,  at  their  Master's  call 
Had  sat  together  in  Raby  hall ! 
Such  strength  that  Earldom  held  of  yore  j 
Nor  wanted  at  this  time  rich  store 
Of  well-appointed  chivalry. 
•—Not  lotli  tlie  sleepy  lance  to  wield. 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYL3T0NE.  29 

And  greet  the  old  paternal  shield, 

They  heard  the  summons  ;  and,  furthermore, 

Horsemen  and  Foot  of  each  degree, 

Unbound  by  pledge  of  fealty, 

Appeared,  with  free  and  open  hate 

Of  novelties  in  Church  and  State ; 

Knight,  burgher,  yeoman,  and  esquire; 

And  Romish  priest,  in  priest's  attire. 

And  thus,  in  arms,  a  zealous  Band 

Proceeding  under  joint  command. 

To  Durham  first  their  course  they  bear ; 

And  in  Saint  Cuthbert's  ancient  seat        • 

Sang  mass,  —  and  tore  the  book  of  prayer,  — 

And  trod  the  Bible  beneath  their  feet. 

Thence  marching  southward  smooth  and  free, 
"Tliey  mustered  their  host  at  Wetherby, 
Full  sixteen  thousand  fair  to  see  "  ;  * 
The  Choicest  Warriors  of  the  North  ! 
But  none  for  beauty  and  for  worth 
Like  those  eight  Sons,  —  who,  in  a  ring, 
(Ripe  men,  or  blooming  in  life's  spring,) 
Each  with  a  lance,  erect  and  tall, 
A  falchion,  and  a  buckler  small. 
Stood  by  their  Sire,  on  Clifford  moor, 
To  guard  the  Standard  which  he  bore. 
On  foot  they  girt  their  Father  round ; 
And  so  will  keep  the  appointed  ground 

*  From  the  ola  Ba'ifld. 


50  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Wlicic'cr  tlieh*  march:  no  steed  will  he 
Henceforth  bestride  ;  —  triumphantly, 
He  .stands  upon  the  grassy  sod, 
Trusting  himself"  to  the  earth,  and  Grod. 
Rare  sight  to  embolden  and  inspire ! 
Proud  was  the  field  of  Sons  and  Sire  ; 
Of  him  the  most ;  and,  sooth  to  say, 
No  shape  of  man  in  all  the  array 
So  graced  the  sunshine  of  that  day. 
The  monumental  pomp  of  age 
Was  with  this  goodly  Personage ; 
A  stature  undepressed  in  size, 
Unbent,  which  rather  seemed  to  rise, 
In  open  victory  o'er  the  weight 
Of  seventy  years,  to  loftier  height ; 
Magnific  limbs  of  withered  state; 
A  face  to  fear  and  venerate ; 
Eyes  dark  and  strong  ;  and  on  his  head 
Bright  locks  of  silver  hair,  thick  spread, 
Which  a  brown  morion  half  concealed, 
Light  as  a  hunter's  of  the  field; 
And  thus,  with  girdle  round  his  waist, 
Whereon  the  Banner-staff"  might  rest 
At  need,  he  stood,  advancing  high 
The  glittering,  floating  Pageantry. 

Wlio  sees  him  ?  —  thousands  see,  and  one 
With  unparticipated  gaze, 
Wlio  'mong  those  thousands  frier.il  hath  none, 
Ami  treads  in  solitary  ways. 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF   RTLSTONE.  3i 

He,  following  wheresoe'er  he  might, 

Hath  watched  the  Banner  from  afar. 

As  shepherds  watch  a  lonely  star, 

Or  mariners  the  distant  light 

That  guides  them  through  a  stormy  night. 

And  now,  upon  a  chosen  plot 

Of  rising  ground,  yon  heathy  spot ! 

He  takes  alone  his  far-off  stand, 

"With  breast  unmailed,  unweaponed  hand. 

Bold  is  his  aspect ;  but  his  eye 

Is  pregnant  with  anxiety, 

While,  like  a  tutelary  Power, 

He  there  stands  fixed  from  hour  to  hour . 

Y'et  sometimes  in  more  humble  guise. 

Upon  the  turf-clad  height  he  lies 

Stretched,  herdsman-like,  as  if  to  bask 

In  sunshine  were  his  only  task. 

Or  by  his  mantle's  help  to  find 

A  shelter  from  the  nipping  wind : 

And  thus,  with  short  oblivion  blest. 

His  weary  spirits  gather  rest. 

Again  he  lifts  his  eyes  ;  and  lo  ! 

The  pageant  glancing  to  and  fro  ; 

And  hope  is  wakened  by  the  sight, 

He  thence  may  learn,  ere  fall  of  night. 

Which  way  the  tide  is  doomed  to  flow. 

To  London  were  the  Chieftains  benr ; 
But  what  avails  the  bold  intent  ? 
A  Royal  army  is  gone  forth 


52  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Tv)  quell  the  RisiNG  OF  THF  North  ; 

They  march  with  Dudley  at  tlicir  head, 

And,  in  seven  days'  space,  will  to  York  be  led! — 

Can  such  a  mighty  Host  be  raised 

Thus  suddenly,  and  brought  so  near  ? 

The  Earls  upon  each  other  gazed, 

And  Neville's  cheek  grew  pale  w^ith  fear 

For,  with  a  high  and  valiant  name, 

He  bore  a  heart  of  timid  frame  ; 

And  bold  if  both  had  been,  yet  they 

"  Against  so  many  may  not  stay."  * 

Back  therefore  will  they  hie  to  seize 

A  stronghold  on  the  banks  of  Tees  ; 

There  wait  a  favorable  hour. 

Until  Lord  Dacre  with  his  power 

From  Naworth  come,  and  Howard's  aid 

Be  with  them  openly  displayed. 

While  through  the  Host,  from  man  to  man, 
A  rumor  of  this  purpose  ran, 
The  Standard  trusting  to  the  care 
Of  him  who  heretofore  did  bear 
That  charge,  impatient  Norton  sought 
The  Chieftains  to  unfold  his  thought. 
And  tlnis  abruptly  spake  :  "  We  yield 
<'And  can  it  be  ?)  an  unfought  field  !  — 
How  oft  has  strength,  the  strength  of  Heaven, 
To  few  triumphantly  been  given  ! 

*  From  the  old  Ballad. 


THE  whit;';  poi:  of  uylstone.  33 

Still  do  our  very  children  boast 

Of  mitred  Tliurston,  —  what  a  Host 

He  conquered  !  —  Saw  we  not  the  Plain 

(And  flying  shall  behold  again) 

Where  faith  was  proved  ?  —  while  to  battle  moved 

The  Standard,  on  the  Sacred  Wain 

That  bore  it,  compassed  round  by  a  bold 

Fraternity  of  Barons  old  ; 

And  with  those  gray-haired  champions  stood. 

Under  the  saintly  ensigns  three. 

The  infant  Heir  of  Mowbray's  blood  — 

All  confident  of  victory  !  — 

Shall  Percy  blush,  then,  for  his  name  ? 

Must  Westmoreland  be  asked  with  shame 

Whose  were  the  numbers,  where  the  loss, 

In  that  other  day  of  Neville's  Cross  ? 

When  the  Prior  of  Durham  with  holy  hand 

Raised,  as  the  Vision  gave  command. 

Saint  Cuthbert's  Relic,  far  and  near 

Kenned,  on  the  point  of  a  lofty  spear  ; 

While  the  Monks  prayed  in  Maiden's  Bower 

To  God  descending  in  his  power. 

Less  would  not  at  our  need  be  due 

To  us,  who  war  against  the  Untrue ;  — 

The  delegates  of  Heaven  we  rise, 

Gjuvoked  the  impious  to  chastise  : 

We,  we,  the  sanctities  of  old 

Would  re-establish  and  uphold  : 

Be  warned"  —  His  zeal  the  Chiefs  confounded, 

But  word  was  given,  and  the  trumpet  sounded: 

VOL.     IV.  3 


34  roii-Ais  OF  Tuic  imagination. 

Back  througli  the  melancliolv  Host 

"Went  Norton,  and  resumed  his  post. 

Alas  !  thought  he,  and  have  I  borne 

This  Banner  raised  with  joyful  pride, 

This  hope  of  all  posterity. 

By  those  dread  symbols  sanctified  ; 

Thus  to  become  at  once  the  scorn 

Of  babbling  winds  as  they  go  by, 

A  spot  of  shame  to  the  sun's  bright  eye, 

To  the  light  clouds  a  mockery  ! 

—  "  Even  these  poor  eight  of  mine  would  stem 
Half  to  iiimself,  and  half  to  them 

He  spake  —  "  would  stem,  or  quell,  a  force 
Ten  times  their  number,  man  and  horse ; 
This  by  their  own  unaided  might. 
Without  their  father  in  their  sight, 
Without  the  Cause  for  which  they  fight ; 
A  Cause,  which  on  a  needful  day 
Would  breed  us  thousands  brave  as  they." 

—  So  speaking,  he  his  reverend  head 
Raised  towards  that  Imagery  once  more : 
But  the  familiar  prospect  shed 
Despondency  unfelt  before  : 

A  shock  of  intimations  vain, 

Dismay,  and  superstitious  pain, 

Fell  on  him,  with  the  sudden  thought 

Of  her  by  whom  the  work  was  wi'ouglit :  —  • 

O  wherefore  was  her  countenance  bright 

With  love  divine  and  gentle  li";ht? 

She  would  not,  could  not,  disobey, 


THE    "vVHlTE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  oO 

P>Lit  her  Faith  leaned  another  way. 
Ill  tears  she  wept ;  I  saw  them  fall, 
I  overheard  her  as  she  spake 
Sad  words  to  that  mute  Animal, 
The  White  Doe,  in  the  hawthorn  brake ; 
She  steeped,  but  not  for  Jesu's  sake, 
This  Cross  in  tears  :  by  her,  and  one 
Unworthier  far  we  are  undone,  — 
Her  recreant  Brother  ;  he  prevailed 
Over  that  tender  Spirit,  —  assailed 
Too  ott,  alas  !  by  her  whose  head 
In  the  cold  grave  hath  long  been  laid : 
She  first  in  reason's  dawn  beguiled 
Her  docile,  unsuspecting  Child  : 
Far  back,  far  back  my  mind  must  go 
To  reach  the  well-spring  of  this  woe  ! 

While  thus  he  brooded,  music  sweet 
Of  border  tunes  was  played,  to  cheer 
The  footsteps  of  a  quick  retreat ; 
But  Norton  lingered  in  the  rear, 
Stung  with  sharp  thoughts  ;  and  ere  the  lar>{ 
From  his  distracted  brain  was  cast. 
Before  his  Father,  Francis  stood, 
And  spake  in  firm  and  earnest  mood. 

"  Though  here  I  bend  a  suppliant  knee 
In  reverence,  and  unarmed,  I  bear 
In  your  indignant  thoughts  my  share  ; 
Am  grieved  this  backward  march  to  see 


36  POEMS    OF    TUE    IMAGI^ATION. 

So  careless  and  disorderl3\ 

I  scorn  your  Chiefs,  —  men  who  would  lead 

And  yet  want  courage  at  their  need : 

Then  look  at  them  with  open  eyes ! 

Deserve  they  further  sacrifice  ?  — 

If,  when  they  shrink,  nor  dare  oppose 

In  open  field  their  gathering  foes, 

(And  fast,  from  this  decisive  day. 

Yon  multitude  must  melt  away,)  — 

If  now  I  ask  a  grace  not  claimed 

While  ground  was  left  for  hope,  unblamed 

Be  an  endeavor  that  can  do 

No  injury  to  them  or  you. 

My  Father !  I  would  help  to  find 

A  place  of  shelter,  till  the  rage 

Of  cruel  men  do  like  the  wind 

Exhaust  itself  and  sink  to  rest ; 

Be  Brother  now  to  Brother  joined  ! 

Admit  me  in  the  equipage 

Of  your  misfortunes,  that  at  least, 

Whatever  fate  remain  behind, 

I  may  bear  witness  in  my  breast 

To  your  nobility  of  mind  !  " 

"  Thou  Enemy,  my  bane  and  blight ! 
0  bold  to  fight  the  Coward's  fight 
Against  all  good!"  —  but  why  declare. 
At  length,  the  issue  of  a  prayer 
Which  love  had  prompted,  yielding  scope 
Too  free  to  one  bright  moment's  hope? 


THE    AVHITE    DOE    OF    RTLSTONE,  37 

Suffice  it  that  the  Son,  who  strove 
With  fruitless  effort  to  allay 
That  passion,  prudently  gave  way  ; 
Nor  did  he  turn  aside  to  prove 
His  Brothers'  wisdom  or  their  love. 
But  calmly  from  the  spot  withdrew ; 
His  best  endeavors  to  renew. 
Should  e'er  a  kindlier  time  ensue. 


CANTO    FOURTH. 

'T  IS  night :  in  silence  looking  down, 

The  Moon  from  cloudless  ether  sees 

A  Camp,  and  a  beleaguered  Town, 

And  Castle  like  a  stately  crown 

On  the  steep  rocks  of  winding  Tees  ;  — 

And  southward  far,  with  moor  between, 

Hill-top,  and  flood,  and  forest  green, 

The  bright  Moon  sees  that  valley  small 

Where  Rylstone's  old  sequestered  Hall 

A  venerable  image  yields 

Of  quiet  to  the  neighboring  fields  ; 

While  from  one  pillared  chimney  breathes 

The  smoke,  and  mounts  in  silver  wreaths. 

—  The  courts  are  hushed  ;  —  for  timely  sleep 

The  greyhounds  to  their  kennel  creep  ; 

The  peacock  in  the  broad  ash-tree 

Aloft  is  roosted  for  the  night, 


38  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION 

Ho  who  in  proud  prosperity 

Of  colors  manifold  and  bright 

Walked  round,  affronting  the  daylight ; 

And  higher  still,  above  the  bower 

Where  he  is  perched,  from  yon  lone  Tower 

The  hall-clock  in  the  clear  moonshine 

With  glittering  finger  points  at  nine. 

Ah  !  who  could  think  that  sadness  here 
Hath  any  sway  ?  or  pain,  or  fear  ? 
A  soft  and  lulling  sound  is  heard 
Of  streams  inaudible  by  day  ; 
The  garden  pool's  dark  surface,  stirred 
By  the  night  insects  in  their  play, 
Breaks  into  dimples  small  and  bright ; 
A  thousand,  thousand  rings  of  light 
That  shape  themselves  and  disappear 
Almost  as  soon  as  seen  :  —  and  lo  ! 
Not  distant  far,  the  milk-white  Doe,  — 
The  same  who  quietly  was  feeding 
On  the  green  herb,  and  nothing  heeding. 
When  Francis,  uttering  to  the  Maid 
His  last  words  in  the  yew-tree  shade. 
Involved  whate'er  by  love  was  brought 
Out  of  his  heart,  or  crossed  his  thought, 
Or  chance  presented  to  his  eye. 
In  one  sad  sweep  of  destiny,  — 
The  same  fair  Creature,  who  hath  found 
Her  way  into  forbidden  ground  ; 
Where  now,  —  within  this  spacious  plot 


Tin;    WHITE    DOE    OF    EYLSTONE.  39 

For  pletisui-e  made,  a  goodly  spot, 

With  lawns  and  beds  of  flowers,  and  shades 

Of  trellis-work  in  long  arcades, 

And  cirque  and  crescent  framed  by  wall 

Of  close-clipt  foliage  green  and  tall. 

Converging  walks,  and  fountains  gay, 

And  ten-aces  in  trim  array, — 

Beneath  yon  cypress  spiring  high. 

With  jjine  and  cedar  spreading  wide 

Their  darksome  boughs  on  either  side, 

In  open  moonlight  doth  she  lie  ; 

Happy  as  others  of  her  kind, 

That,  far  from  human  neighborhood, 

Range  unrestricted  as  the  wind. 

Through  park,  or  chase,  or  savage  wood. 

But  see  the  consecrated  Maid 
Emerging  from  a  cedar  shade 
To  open  moonshine,  where  the  Doe 
Beneath  the  cypress-spire  is  laid ; 
Like  a  patch  of  April  snow, 
Upon  a  bed  of  hei'bage  green, 
Lingering  in  a  woody  glade 
Or  behind  a  rocky  screen,  — 
Lonely  relic  !  which,  if  seen 
By  the  shepherd,  is  passed  by 
With  an  inattentive  eye. 
Nor  more  regard  doth  she  bestow 
Upon  the  uncomplaining  Doe, 
Now  couched  at  ease,  though  oft  this  day 


40  POEMS    OF    TIIK    IMAGINATIOX. 

Not  unpei'plexed  nor  free  from  pain, 
When  she  had  tried,  and  tried  iji  vain, 
Approaching  in  her  gentle  way. 
To  win  some  look  of  love,  or  gain 
Encouragement  to  sport  or  play  ; 
Attempts  which  the  heart-sick  Maid 
Rejected,  or  with  slight  repaid. 

Yet  Emily  is  soothed  ;  —  the  breeze 
Came  fraught  with  kindly  sympathies. 
As  she  approached  yon  rustic  shed 
Hung  with  late-flowering  woodbine,  spread 
Along  the  walls  and  overhead, 
The  fragrance  of  the  breathing  flowers 
Revived  a  memory  of  those  hours 
When  here,  in  this  remote  alcove, 
(While  from  the  pendent  woodbine  came 
Like  odors,  sweet  as  if  the  same,) 
A  fondly  anxious  Mother  strove 
To  teach  her  salutary  fears 
And  mysteries  above  her  years. 
Yes,  she  is  soothed  :  an  Image  faint, 
And  yet  not  faint,  a  presence  bright 
Returns  to  her,  —  that  blessed  Saint 
Who  with  mild  looks  and  language;  mild 
Instructed  here  her  darling  Child, 
While  yet  a  prattler  on  the  knee, 
To  worship  in  simplicity 
The  invisible  God,  and  take  for  guide 
The  faith  reformed  and  purilicd. 


THE    AyHITE    DOE    OF    IIY]. STONE.  11 

'T  is  flown,  —  the  Vision,  and  the  sense 
Of  that  beo-uilinjif  influence  ; 
"  But  0  thou  Angel  from  above  ! 
Mute  Spirit  of  maternal  love. 
That  stood'st  before  my  eyes,  more  clear 
Than  ghosts  are  fabled  to  appear 
Sent  upon  embassies  of  fear  ; 
As  thou  thy  presence  hast  to  me 
Vouchsafed,  in  radiant  ministry 
Descend  on  Francis  ;  nor  forbear 
To  greet  iiim  with  a  voice,  and  say : 
'  If  hope  be  a  rejected  stay. 
Do  thou,  my  Christian  Son,  beware 
Of  that  most  lamentable  snare. 
The  self-reliance  of  despair  ! '  " 

Then  from  within  the  embowered  retreat 
Where  she  had  found  a  grateful  seat 
Perturbed  she  issues.     She  will  go ! 
Herself  will  follow  to  the  war. 
And  clasp  her  Father's  knees ;  —  ah,  no  ! 
She  meets  an  insuperable  bar, 
The  injunction  by  her  Brother  laid  ; 
His  parting  charge,  —  but  ill  obeyed,  — 
That  interdicted  all  debate. 
All  prayer  for  this  cause  or  for  that  ; 
All  efforts  that  would  turn  aside 
The  headstrong  current  of  their  fate : 
Her  duty  is  to  stand  and  wait ; 
In  resignation  to  abide 


42  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATIOX. 

The  shock,  and  finally  secure 

O'er  pain  and  grief  a  triumph  pure. 

—  She  feels  it,  and  her  pangs  are  checked. 

But  now,  as  silently  she  paced 

The  turf,  and  thought  by  thought  was  eha'H^l, 

Came  one  who,  with  sedate  respect, 

Approached,  and,  greeting  her,  thus  spake ; 

"  An  old  man's  privilege  I  take : 

Dark  is  the  time,  a  woful  day ! 

Dear  daughter  of  affliction,  say. 

How  can  I  serve  you  ?  point  the  way." 

''  Rights  have  you,  and  may  well  be  bol<{ : 
You  with  my  Father  have  grown  old 
In  friendship,  —  strive,  —  for  his  sake  go, — 
Turn  from  us  all  the  coming  woe  : 
This  would  I  beg  ;  but  on  my  mind 
A  passive  stillness  is  enjoined. 
On  you,  if  room  for  moi'tal  aid 
Be  left,  is  no  restriction  laid ; 
You  not  forbidden  to  recline 
With  hope  upon  the  Will  Divine." 

"  Hope,"  said  the  old  Man,  "  Must  abide 
With  all  of  us,  whate'er  betide. 
In  Craven's  Wilds  is  many  a  den, 
To  shelter  persecuted  men  : 
Far  under  ground  is  many  a  cave, 
Wliere  they  might  lie  as  in  the  grave, 
Until  this  storm  liath  ceased  to  rave : 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  43 

Or  let  them  cross  the  River  Tweed, 
And  be  at  once  from  peril  freed ! " 

"  Ah,  tempt  me  not ! "  she  faintly  sighed ; 
"  I  will  not  counsel  nor  exhort, 
With  my  condition  satisfied ; 
But  you,  at  least,  may  make  report 
Of  what  befalls ;  —  be  this  your  task,  — 
This  may  be  done  ;  —  't  is  all  I  ask !  " 

She  spake,  and  from  the  Lady's  sight 
The  Sire,  unconscious  of  his  age. 
Departed  promptly  as  a  Page 
Bound  on  some  errand  of  delight. 
The  noble  Francis,  wise  as  brave. 
Thought  he,  may  want  not  skiU  to  save. 
"With  hopes  in  tenderness  concealed, 
Unarmed  he  followed  to  the  field ; 
Him  will  I  seek  :  the  insurgent  Powers 
Are  now  besieging  Barnard's  Towers,  — 
"  Grant  that  the  Moon  which  shines  this  night 
May  guide  them  in  a  prudent  flight 


I » 


But  quick  the  turns  of  chance  and  change, 
And  knowledge  has  a  narrow  range  ; 
Whence  idle  fears,  and  needless  pain, 
And  wishes  blind,  and  efforts  vain.  — 
The  Moon  may  shine,  but  cannot  be 
Their  guide  in  flight,  —  already  she 
Hath  witnessed  their  captivity. 


44  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

She  saw  the  desperate  assault 

Upon  that  hostile  castle  made ;  — 

But  dark  and  dismal  is  the  vault 

Whei'e  Norton  and  his  sons  are  laid ! 

Disastrous  issue  !  —  he  had  said  : 

"  This  night  yon  faithless  Towers  must  yield, 

Or  we  for  ever  quit  the  field. 

—  Neville  is  utterly  dismayed, 
For  pi'omise  fails  of  Howard's  aid ; 
And  Dacre  to  our  call  replies 
That  he  is  unprepared  to  rise. 

My  heart  is  sick  ;  —  this  weary  pause 
Must  needs  be  fatal  to  our  cause. 
The  bi'each  is  open,  —  on  the  wall, 
This  night,  the  Banner  shall  be  planted ! " 

—  'T  was  done  :  his  Sons  were  witli  him, — all; 
They  belt  him  round  with  hearts  undaunted 
And  others  follow  :  Sire  and  Son 

Leap  down  into  the  court :  "  'Tis  won,  "  — 
They  shout  aloud,  —  but  Heaven  decreed 
That  with  their  joyful  shout  siiould  close 
The  triumph  of  a  desperate  deed 
Which  struck  with  terror  friends  and  foes  ! 
The  friend  shrinks  back,  the  foe  recoils, 
From  Norton  and  his  filial  band  ; 
But  they,  now  cauj^ht  within  the  toils, 
Against  a  thousand  cannot  stand  ;  — 
The  foe  from  numbers  courage  drtjw, 
And  overpowered  that  gallant  few. 
"  A  rescue  for  the  Standard  !  "  cried 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  45 

The  Fathei-  from  within  the  walls  ; 
But,  see,  the  sacred  Standard  falls  !  — 
Confusion  through  the  Camp  spread  wide  : 
Some  fled  ;  and  some  their  fears  detained : 
But  ere  the  Moon  had  sunk  to  rest 
In  her  pale  chambers  of  the  west, 
Of  that  rash  levy  naught  remained. 


CANTO    FIFTH. 

High  on  a  point  of  rugged  ground 
Among  the  wastes  of  Eylstone  Fell, 
Above  the  loftiest  ridge  or  mound 
Where  foresters  or  shepherds  dwell, 
An  edifice  of  Avarlike  frame 
Stands  single,  —  Norton  Tower  its  name  ; 
It  fronts  all  quarters,  and  looks  round 
O'er  path  and  road,  and  plain  and  dell, 
Dark  moor,  and  gleam  of  pool  and  stream, 
Upon  a  prospect  without  bound. 

The  summit  of  this  bold  ascent  — 
Though  bleak  and  bare,  and  seldom  free 
As  Pendle  Hill  or  Pennygent 
From  wind,  or  frost,  or  vapors  wet — 
Had  often  heard  the  sound  of  glee 
When  there  the  youthful  Nortons  met. 
To  practise  games  and  archery  : 
How  proud  and  happy  they!  the  crowd 


46  POKMS    OF   TUE   IMAGINATION. 

or  Lookers-on  how  pleased  and  proud  ! 
And  from  the  scorching  noontide  sun, 
From  showers,  or  when  the  prize  was  won. 
They  to  the  Tower  withdrew,  and  there 
Would  mirth  run  round,  with  generous  fare ; 
And  the  stern  old  Lord  of  Rylstone  hall 
Was  happiest,  proudest,  of  them  all ! 

But  now,  his  Child,  with  anguish  pale. 
Upon  the  height  walks  to  and  fro  ; 
'T  is  well  that  she  hath  heard  the  tale, 
Received  the  bitterness  and  woe: 
For  she  had  hoped,  had  hoped  and  feared. 
Such  right  did  feeble  nature  claim ; 
And  oft  her  steps  had  hither  steered, 
Though  not  unconscious  of  self-blame  ; 
For  she  her  Brother's  charge  revered, 
His  farewell  words  ;  and  by  tlie  same, 
Yea  by  her  Brother's  very  name. 
Had,  in  her  solitude,  been  cheered. 

Beside  the  lonely  watch-tower  stood 
That  gray-haired  man  of  gentle  blood. 
Who  with  her  Father  had  grown  old 
In  friendship  ;  rival  hunters  they. 
And  fellow-warriors  in  their  day  : 
To  liylstone  he  the  tidings  brought; 
Then  on  this  height  the  Maid  had  sought. 
And,  gently  as  he  could,  had  told 
The  end  of  that  dire  Trngedy, 
Which  it  had  been  his  lot  to  see. 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  47 

To  Inm  the  Lady  turned :  "  You  said 
That  Francis  Uves,  he  is  not  dead  ?  " 

"  Your  noble  Brother  hath  been  spared  j 
To  take  his  life  they  have  not  dared ; 
3n  him  and  on  his  high  endeavor 
The  light  of  praise  shall  shine  for  ever  I 
Nor  did  he  (such  Heaven's  will)  in  vain 
His  solitary  course  maintain  ; 
Not  vainly  struggled  in  the  might 
Of  duty,  seeing  with  clear  sight ; 
He  was  their  comfort  to  the  last, 
Their  joy  till  every  pang  was  past. 

"I  witnessed  when  to  York  they  came,  —  • 
What,  Lady,  if  their  feet  were  tied  ; 
They  might  deserve  a  good  man's  blame  ; 
But  marks  of  infamy  and  shame,  — 
These  were  their  triumph,  these  their  pride ; 
Nor  wanted  'mid  the  pressing  crowd 
Deep  feeling,  that  found  utterance  loud, 
'  Lo,  Francis  comes,'  there  were  who  cried, 
'  A  Prisoner  once,  but  now  set  free  ! 
'T  is  well,  for  he  the  worst  defied 
Through  force  of  natural  piety ; 
He  rose  not  in  this  quarrel,  he, 
For  concord's  sake  and  England's  gocMl, 
Suit  to  his  Brothers  often  made 
With  tears,  and  of  his  Father  prayed,  — 
And  when  he  had  in  vain  withstood 


18  rOKMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

TJieir  purpose,  then  did  he  divide, 

He  parted  from  them  ;  but  at  their  side 

Now  walks  in  unanimity. 

Then  peace  to  crueUy  and  scorn, 

While  to  the  prison  they  are  borne, 

Peace,  peace  to  all  indignity ! ' 

"  And  so  in  Prison  were  they  laid,  — 
0  hear  me,  hear  me,  gentle  Maid ! 
For  I  am  come  with  power  to  bless, 
By  scattering  gleams,  through  your  distress, 
Of  a  redeeming  happiness. 
Me  did  a  reverent  pity  move 
And  privilege  of  ancient  love  ; 
And,  in  your  service  making  bold. 
Entrance  I  gained  to  that  stronghold. 

"Your  Father  gave  me  cordial  greeting; 
But  to  his  purposes,  that  burned 
Within  him,  instantly  retui'ned: 
He  was  commanding  and  entreating, 
And  said,  '  We  need  not  stop,  my  Son  ! 
Thoughts  press,  and  time  is  hurrying  on,'  — 
And  so  to  Francis  he  renewed 
His  words,  more  calmly  thus  pursued. 

"  '  Might  this  our  enterprise  have  sped, 
Change  wide  and  deep  the  Land  had  seen, 
A  renovation  from  the  dead, 
A.  spring-tide  of  immortal  green : 


THE    AVHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  49 

The  darksome  altars  would  have  blazed 

Like  stars  when  clouds  are  rolled  away  ; 

Salvation  to  all  eyes  that  gazed, 

Once  more  the  Rood  had  been  upraised 

To  spread  its  arms,  and  stand  for  aye. 

Then,  then,  had  I  survived  to  see 

New  life  in  Bolton  Priory  ; 

The  voice  restored,  the  eye  of  Truth 

Reopened  that  inspired  my  youth  ; 

To  see  her  in  her  pomp  arrayed,  — 

This  Banner  (for  such  vow  I  made) 

Should  on  the  consecrated  breast 

Of  that  same  Temple  have  found  rest  • 

I  would  myself  have  hung  it  high, 

Fit  offering  of  glad  victory  ! 

" '  A  shadow  of  such  thought  remaioa, 
To  cheer  this  sad  and  pensive  lime ; 
A  solemn  fancy  yet  sustains 
One  feeble  Being,  —  bids  me  climb 
Even  to  the  last,  —  one  effort  more 
To  attest  my  Faith,  if  not  restore. 

" '  Hear,  then,'  said  he,  '  while  I  impart, 
My  Son,  the  last  wish  of  my  heart. 
The  Banner  strive  thou  to  regain  ; 
And,  if  the  endeavor  prove  not  vain, 
Bear  it  —  to  whom,  if  not  to  thee 
Shall  I  this  lonely  thought  consign  ?  — ■ 
Bear  it  to  Bolton  Priory, 

VOL.    IV.  i 


50  POEMS    OK    THE    IMAGINATION. 

And  lay  it  on  Saint  Mary's  shrine, 

To  wither  in  the  sun  and  breeze 

'Mid  those  decaying  sanctities. 

Thei'e  let  at  least  tlie  gift  be  laid, 

The  testimony  there  displayed  ; 

Bold  pi'oof  that  with  no  selfish  aim, 

But  for  lost  Faith  and  Christ's  dear  name; 

I  helmeted  a  brow,  though  white, 

And  took  a  place  in  all  men's  sight ; 

Yea,  offered  up  this  noble  Brood, 

This  fair,  unrivalled  Brotherhood, 

And  turned  away  from  thee,  my  Son ! 

And  left  —  But  be  the  rest  unsaid, 

The  name  untouched,  the  tear  unshed ;  — 

My  Avish  is  known,  and  I  have  done : 

Now  promise,  grant  this  one  request, 

This  dying  prayer,  and  be  thou  blest ! ' 

"Then  Francis  answered,  'Trust  thy  Son, 
For,  with  God's  will,  it  shall  be  done  ! ' 

"The  pledge  obtained,  the  solemn  word 
Thus  scarcely  given,  a  noise  was  heard, 
And  Officers  arose  in  state 
To  lead  the  prisoners  to  their  fate. 
They  rose, — O  wherefore  should  I  fear 
To  tell,  or,  lady,  you  to  hear  ? 
They  rose,  —  embraces  none  were  given, — 
They  st«>od  like  trees  when  earth  and  heaven 
Are  calm  ;  they  knew  each  other's  worth. 


THE.    WHITE    DOE    OF   RYLSTONE.  51 

And  reverently  the  Band  went  forth. 

They  met,  when  they  had  reached  the  door, 

One  with  profane  and  harsh  intent 

Placed  there, — -that  he  might  go  befoi'e, 

And,  v/ith  that  rueful  Banner  borne 

Aloft,  in  sign  of  taunting  scorn. 

Conduct  them  to  their  punishment : 

So  cruel  Sussex,  unrestrained 

By  human  feeling,  had  ordained. 

The  unhappy  Banner  Francis  saw, 

And,  with  a  look  of  calm  command 

Inspiring  universal  awe, 

He  took  it  from  the  soldier's  hand ; 

And  all  the  people  that  stood  round 

Confirmed  the  deed  in  peace  profound. 

—  High  transport  did  the  Father  shed 

Upon  his  Son,  —  and  they  were  led. 

Led  on,  and  yielded  up  their  breath  ; 

Together  died,  a  happy  death  !  — 

But  Francis,  soon  as  he  had  braved 

That  insult,  and  the  Banner  saved, 

Athwart  the  unresisting  tide 

Of  the  spectators  occupied 

In  admiration  or  dismay. 

Bore  instantly  his  Charge  away." 

These  things,  which  thus  had  in  the  sight 
And  hearmg  passed  of  him  who  stood 
With  Emily,  on  the  Watch-tower  height. 
In  Rylstone's  woful  neighborhood, 


52  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

He  told  ;  and  oftentimes  with  voice 

Of  power  to  comfort  or  i-ejoice  ; 

For  deepest  sorrows  that  aspire, 

Go  high,  no  transport  ever  higher. 

"  Yes,  God  is  rich  in  mercy,"  said 

The  old  Man  to  the  silent  Maid ; 

"  Yet,  Lady  !  shines,  through  this  black  nighl 

One  star  of  aspect  heavenly  bright ; 

Your  Brother  lives,  —  he  lives,  —  is  come 

Perhaps  already  to  his  home  ; 

Then  let  us  leave  this  dreary  "place." 

She  yielded,  and  with  gentle  pace, 

Though  without  one  uplifted  look, 

To  Rylstone  hall  her  way  she  took. 


CANTO    SIXTH. 

Why  comes  not  Francis  ?  —  From  the  doleful  Citj 

He  fled,  —  and,  in  his  flight,  could  hear 

The  death-sounds  of  the  Minster'bell : 

Tlitit  sullen  stroke  pronounced  fai-ewell 

To  ]\Iarmaduke,  cut  off  from  pity  ! 

To  Ambrose  that!  and  then  a  knell 

For  him,  (he  sweet,  half-opened  Flower! 

For  all,  —  all  dying  in  one  hour  ! 

—  AVhy  comes  not  Francis  ?     Thoughts  of  lovo 

Should  bear  him  to  his  Sister  dear 

VVith  the  fleet  motion  of  a  dove  ; 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  33 

Yea,  like  a  heavenly  messenger 

Of  speediest  wing  should  he  appear. 

Why  comes  he  not  ?  —  foi-  westward  fast 

Along  the  plain  of  York  he  past ; 

Reckless  of  what  impels  or  leads, 

Unchecked  he  hurries  on ;  —  nor  heeds 

The  sorrow,  through  the  Villages, 

Spread  by  triumphant  cruelties 

Of  vengeful  military  force, 

And  punishment  without  remorse. 

He  marked  not,  heard  not,  as  he  fled; 

All  but  the  suffering  heai't  was  dead 

For  him  abandoned  to  blank  awe, 

To  vacancy,  and  horror  strong : 

And  the  first  object  which  he  saw, 

With  conscious  sight,  as  he  swept  along,  — » 

It  was  the  Banner  in  his  hand  ! 

He  felt,  —  and  made  a  sudden  stand. 

He  looked  about  like  one  betrayed : 
What  hath  he  done  ?  what  promise  made  ? 
O  weak,  weak  moment,  to  what  end 
Can  such  a  vain  oblation  tend. 
And  he  the  Bearer  ?  —  Can  he  go, 
Carrying  this  instrument  of  woe. 
And  find,  find  anywhere,  a  right 
To  excuse  him  in  his  Country's  sight? 
No ;  will  not  all  men  deem  the  change 
A  downward  course,  perverse  and  strange? 
Here  is  it;  —  but  how?  when?  must  she, 


54  POEMS    OF    THE   IMAGINATION. 

Tlic  uiiofFending  Emily, 
Again  tliis  piteous  object  see  ? 

Sucli  conflict  long  did  he  maintain, 
Nor  liberty,  nor  rest  could  gain  : 
His  own  life  into  danger  brought 
By  this  sad  burden,  —  even  that  thought, 
Exciting  self-suspicion  strong. 
Swayed  the  brave  man  to  his  wrong. 
And  how,  —  unless  it  were  the  sense 
Of  all-disposing  Providence, 
Its  will  unquestionably  shown,  — 
How  has  the  Banner  clung  so  fast 
To  a  palsied  and  unconscious  hand ; 
Clung  to  the  hand  to  which  it  passed 
Without  impediment?     And  wliy 
But  that  Heaven's  purpose  might  be  known 
Doth  now  no  hindrance  meet  his  eye. 
No  intervention,  to  withstand 
Fulfilment  of  a  Father's  prayer 
Breathed  to  a  Son  forgiven,  and  blest 
When  all  resentments  were  at  rest. 
And  life  in  death  laid  the  heart  bare?  — 
Then,  like  a  spectre  sweeping  by, 
Rusluid  through  his  mind  the  prophecy 
Of  utter  desolation  made 
To  Emily  in  the  yew-tree  shade: 
He  sighed,  submitting  will  and  power 
To  the  stern  embrace  of  tliat  grasping  hour. 
'*  No  clioice  is  left,  the  deed  is  mine, — 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  55 

Dead  are  they,  dead !  —  and  I  will  go, 
And,  for  their  sakes,  come  weal  or  woe, 
Will  lay  the  Relic  on  the  shrine." 

So  forward  with  a  steady  will 
He  went,  and  traversed  plain  and  hill; 
And  up  the  vale  of  Wharf  his  way 
Pursued;  —  and,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Attained  a  summit  whence  his  eyes 
Could  see  the  Tower  of  Bolton  rise. 
There  Francis  for  a  moment's  space 
Made  halt ;  —  but  hark  !  a  noise  behind 
Of  horsemen  at  an  eager  pace  ! 
He  heard,  and  with  misgiving  mind. 
—  'T  is  Sir  George  Bowes  who  leads  the  Band : 
They  come,  by  cruel  Sussex  sent ; 
Who,  when  the  Nortons  from  tlie  hand 
Of  death  had  drunk  their  punishment, 
Bethought  him,  angry  and  ashamed. 
How  Francis,  with  the  Banner  claimed 
As  his  own  charge,  had  disappeared, 
By  all  the  standers-by  revered. 
His  whole  bold  carriage'  (which  had  quelled 
Thus  far  the  Opposer,  and  repelled 
All  censure,  enterprise  so  bright 
That  even  bad  men  had  vainly  striven 
Against  that  overcoming  light) 
Was  then  reviewed,  and  prompt  word  given, 
That,  to  what  place  soever  fled, 
Ff  should  be  seized,  alive  or  dead. 


56  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

The  troop  of  hoi-se  have  gained  the  height 
Where  Francis  stood  in  open  sight. 
They  hem  him  round,  —  "  Behold  tlie  pr'Xjf," 
They  cried,  "  the  Ensign  in  his  liand ! 
He  did  not  arm,  he  walked  aloof! 
For  why  ?  —  to  save  his  Father's  land  ;  — 
Worst  Traitor  of  them  all  is  he, 
A  Traitor  dark  and  cowardly  !  " 

"I  am  no  Traitor,"  Francis  said, 
"  Though  this  unhappy  freight  I  bear ; 
And  must  not  part  with.     But  beware  ;  — 
Err  not,  by  hasty  zeal  misled, 
Nor  do  a  suffering  Spirit  wrong, 
Whose  self-reproaches  are  too  strong !  " 
At  this  he  from  the  beaten  road 
Retreated  towards  a  brake  of  thorn, 
That  like  a  place  of  vantage  showed  ; 
And  tliere  stood  bravely,  though  forlorn. 
In  self-defence  with  Avarlike  brow 
He  stood,  —  nor  weaponless  was  now  ; 
He  from  a  Soldier's  hand  had  snatched 
A  spear,  —  and,  so  protected,  watched 
The  Assailants,  turning  round  and  round  ; 
But  from  behind  with  treaclierous  woinid 
A  Spearman  brought  him  to  the  ground. 
The  guardian  lance,  as  Francis  fell. 
Dropped  from  him  ;  but  his  other  hand 
The  Banner  clenched  ;  till,  from  out  the  Band. 
One,  the  most  eager  for  the  prize, 


THE    WHITK    UOli    OF    KYLSTONE.  57 

Rushed  in  ;  and  —  while,  0  grief  to  tell ! 
A  glimmering  sense  still  left,  with  eyes 
Unclosed  the  noble  Francis  lay  — 
Seized  it,  as  hunters  seize  their  prey  ; 
But  not  before  the  warm  life-blood 
Had  tinged  more  deeply,  as  it  flowed, 
The  wounds  the  broidered  Banner  showed. 
Thy  fatal  work,  0  Maiden,  innocent  as  gooi  I 

Proudly  the  Horsemen  bore  away 
The  Standard ;  and  where  Francis  lay 
There  was  he  left  alone,  unwept, 
And  for  two  days  unnoticed  slept. 
For  at  that  time  bewildering  fear 
Possessed  the  country,  far  and  near ; 
But  on  the  third  day,  passing  by, 
One  of  the  Norton  Tenantry 
Espied  the  uncovered  Coi'se  ;  the  IVIan 
Shrunk  as  he  recognized  the  face, 
And  to  the  nearest  homesteads  ran 
And  called  the  people  to  the  place. 
—  How  desolate  is  Rylstone  hall ! 
This  was  the  instant  thought  of  all ; 
And  if  the  lonely  Lady  there 
Should  be,  to  her  they  cannot  bear 
This  weight  of  anguish  and  despair. 
So,  when  upon  sad  thoughts  had  prest 
Thoughts  sadder  still,  they  deemed  it  best 
That,  if  the  Priest  should  yield  assent, 
And  no  one  hinder  their  intent. 


58  rOEJlS    OF   TUE    IMAGINATION. 

Tlien  they,  foi'  Christian  pity's  sake, 
In  holy  ground  a  grave  would  make  ; 
And  straightway  buried  he  should  be 
In  the  Churchyard  of  the  Priory. 

Apart,  some  little  space,  was  made 
The  grave  where  Francis  must  be  laid. 
In  no  confusion  or  neglect 
This  did  they,  but  in  pure  respect 
That  he  was  born  of  gentle  blood ; 
And  that  there  was  no  neighborhood 
Of  kindred  for  him  in  that  ground  : 
So  to  the  Churchyard  tliey  are  bound. 
Bearing  the  body  on  a  bier  ; 
And  psalms  they  sing,  —  a  holy  sound 
That  hill  and  vale  with  sadness  hear. 

But  Emily  hath  raised  her  head. 
And  is  again  disquieted  ; 
She  must  behold  !  —  so  many  gone, 
Where  is  the  solitary  one  ? 
And  forth  from  Rylstone  hall  stejjped  sht,— 
To  seek  her  Brother  forth  she  went, 
And  tremblingly  her  course  she  bent 
Toward  Bolton's  ruined  Pi'iory. 
She  comes,  and  in  the  vale  hath  heard 
Tlie  funeral  dirge  ;  —  she  sees  tlie  knot 
CM"  people,  sees  them  in  one  spot,  — 
And,  darting  like  a  wounded  bird, 
She  readied  tlie  grave,  and  with  her  biua.sl 


THE    AVHITE    DOE    OF    RTLSTONE.  59 

Upon  tlie  ground  received  the  rest,  — 
The  consummation,  the  whole  ruth 
And  sorrow  of  this  final  truth  ! 


CANTO    SEVENTH. 

"  Powers  there  are 
That  touch  each  other  to  the  quick,  —  in  modes 
Which  the  gross  world  no  sense  hath  to  perceive. 
No  soul  to  dream  of." 

Thou  Spirit,  whose  angelic  hand 

Was  to  the  harp  a  strong  command, 

Called  the  submissive  strings  to  w^ake 

In  glory  for  this  Maiden's  sake, 

Say,  Spirit !  whither  hath  she  fled 

To  hide  her  poor,  afflicted  head  ? 

What  mighty  forest  in  its  gloom 

Enfolds  her  ?  —  is  a  rifted  tomb 

Within  the  wilderness  her  seat  ? 

Some  island  which  the  wild  waves  beat,  — > 

Is  that  the  Sufferer's  last  retreat  ? 

Or  some  aspiring  i-ock,  that  shrouds 

Its  perilous  front  in  mists  and  clouds  ? 

High-climbing  rock,  low,  sunless  dale, 

Sea,  desert,  what  do  these  avail  ? 

O  take  her  ans-uish  and  her  fears 

Into  a  deep  recess  of  years  ! 


50  POEMS    OF    THi:    IM AGINATION". 

T  is  done;  —  despoil  and  desolation 
O'er  Rylstone's  fkir  domain  have  blown  : 
Pools,  terraces,  and  walks  are  sown 
With  weeds  ;  the  bowers  are  overthrown. 
Or  have  given  w^ay  to  slow  mutation, 
While  in  their  ancient  habitation 
The  Norton  name  hath  been  unknown. 
The  lordly  Mansion  of  its  pride 
Is  stripped ;  the  ravage  hath  spread  wide 
Through  park  and  field,  a  perishing 
That  mocks  the  gladness  of"  the  Spring  ! 
And,  with  this  silent  gloom  agreeing, 
Appears  a  joyless  human  Being, 
Of  aspect  such  as  if  the  waste 
Were  under  her  dominion  placed. 
Upon  a  primrose  bank,  her  throne 
Of  quietness,  she  sits  alone  ; 
Among  the  ruins  of  a  wood, 
Erewhile  a  covert  bright  and  green. 
And  wliere  full  many  a  brave  tree  stood, 
That  used  to  spread  its  boughs,  and  ring 
With  the  sweet  bird's  carolling. 
Behold  her,  like  a  virgin  Queen, 
Neglecting  in  imperial  slate 
These  outward  images  of  fate, 
And  carrying  inward  a  serene 
And  perfect  sway,  through  many  a  ihougiit 
Of  chance  and  change,  tiiat  halli  b(^en  brought 
To  the  subjection  of  a  holy, 
Thougli  st-ern  and  rigorous,  melancholy  ! 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RTLSTONE. 

The  like  authority,  with  grace 

Of  awfulness,  is  in  her  face, — 

Tliere  hath  she  fixed  it ;  yet  it  seems 

To  o'ershadow  by  no  native  right 

That  fac€,  which  cannot  lose  the  gleams, 

Lose  utterly  the  tender  gleams, 

Of  gentleness  and  meek  delight, 

And  loving-kindness  ever  bright : 

Such  is  her  sovereign  mien :  —  her  dress 

(A  vest  with  woollen  cincture  tied, 

A  hood  of  mountain-wool  undyed) 

Is  homely,  —  fashioned  to  express 

A  wandering  Pilgrim's  humbleness. 

And  she  hath  wandered,  long  and  far. 
Beneath  the  light  of  sun  and  star ; 
Hath  roamed  in  trouble  and  in^grief. 
Driven  forward  like  a  withered  leaf, 
Yea,  like  a  ship  at  random  blown 
To  distant  places  and  unknown. 
But  now  she  dares  to  seek  a  haven 
Among  her  native  wilds  of  Craven  : 
Hath  seen  again  her  Father's  roof, 
And  put  her  fortitude  to  proof ; 
The  mighty  sorrow  hath  been  borne, 
And  she  is  thoroughly  forlorn  : 
Her  soul  doth  in  itself  stand  fast, 
Sustained  by  memory  of  the  past 
\tid  strength  of  Reason  ;  held  above 
The  infirmities  of  mortal  love; 


G2  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

Undaunted,  lofty,  calm,  and  stable, 
And  awfully  impenetrable. 

And  so  —  beneath  a  mouldered  tree, 
A  self-surviving  leafless  oak 
By  unregarded  age  from  stroke 
Of  ravage  saved  — sat  Emily. 
There  did  she  rest,  with  head  reclined. 
Herself  most  like  a  stately  flower 
(Such  have  I  seen)  whom  chance  of  birth 
Hath  separated  from  its  kind. 
To  live  and  die  in  a  shady  bower. 
Single  on  the  gladsome  earth. 

When,  with  a  noise  like  distant  thunder, 
A  troop  of  deer  came  sweeping  by  ; 
And,  suddenly,  behold  a  wonder  ! 
For  one,  among  those  rushing  deer, 
A  single  one,  in  mid-career, 
Hath  stopped,  and  fixed  her  large,  full  eye 
Upon  the  Lady  Emily  ; 
A  Doe  most  beautiful,  clear  white, 
A  radiant  creature,  silver-bright ! 

Thus  checked,  a  little  while  it  stayed, 
A  little  thoughtful  pause  it  made  ; 
And  then  advanced  with  stealth-like  pace, 
Drew  softly  near  her,  and  more  near,  — 
Looked  round,  —  but  saw  no  cause  for  fear, 
oo  to  her  feet  the  Creature  came, 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONK.  63 

And  laid  its  head  upon  her  knee, 

And  looked  into  the  Lady's  face, 

A  look  of  pure  benignity, 

And  fond,  unclouded  memory. 

It  is,  thought  Emily,  the  same. 

The  very  Doe  of  other  years  !  — 

The  pleading  look  the  Lady  viewed, 

And,  by  her  gushing  thoughts  subdued. 

She  melted  into  tears,  — 

A  flood  of  tears,  that  flowed  apace, 

Upon  the  happy  Creature's  face. 

0  moment  ever  blest !     0  Pair 
Beloved  of  Heaven,  Heaven's  chosen  care. 
This  was  for  you  a  precious  greeting; 
Ajid  may  it  prove  a  fruitful  meeting! 
Joined  are  they,  and  the  sylvan  Doe 
Can  she  depart  ?  can  she  forego 
The  Lady,  once  her  playful  peer. 
And  now  her  sainted  Mistress  dear  ? 
And  will  not  Emily  receive 
This  lovely  chronicler  of  things 
Long  past,  delights  and  sorrowings  ? 
Lonsr  Sufferer  !  will  not  she  believe 
The  promise  in  that  speaking  face  ; 
And  welcome,  as  a  gift  of  grace, 
The  saddest  thought  the  Creature  brings  ? 

That  day,  the  first  of  a  reunion 
Which  was  to  teem  with  high  commuinon, 


€1  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 

That  day  of  balmy  April  weather, 

They  tarried  in  the  wood  together. 

And  when,  ere  fall  of  evening  dew, 

She  from  her  sylvan  haunt  withdrew. 

The  White  Doe  tracked  with  faithful  pace 

The  Lady  to  her  dwelling-place  ; 

That  nook  where,  on  paternal  ground, 

A  habitation  she  had  found, 

The  Master  of  whose  humble  board 

Once  owned  her  Father  for  his  Lord ; 

A  hut,  by  tufted  trees  defended, 

Where  Rylstone  Brook  with  Wharf  is  blended. 

When  Emily  by  morning  light 
Went  forth,  the  Doe  stood  there  in  sight. 
She  shrunk  :  —  with  one  frail  shock  of  pain 
Received  and  followed  by  a  prayer. 
She  saw  the  Creature  once  again  ; 
Shun  will  she  not,  she  feels,  will  bear;  — 
But,  wheresoever  she  looked  round, 
All  now  was  trouble-haunted  ground  ; 
And  therefore  now  she  deems  it  good 
Once  more  this  restless  neighborhood 
To  leave.  —  Unwooed,  yet  unforbidden, 
The  White  Doe  followed  up  the  vale, 
Up  to  another  cottage,  hidden 
In  the  deep  fork  of  Amerdale  ; 
And  there  may  Emily  restore 
Herself,  in  spots  unseen  before. 
—  Why  t(;ll  of  inos^iy  rock,  or  tree. 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTOXB.  6' 

By  lurking  Dernbrook's  pathless  side, 

Haunts  of  a  strengthening  amity 

That  calmed  her,  cheered,  and  fortified  ? 

For  she  hath  ventured  now  to  read 

Of  time,  and  place,  and  thought,  and  deed. — • 

Endless  history  that  lies 

In  her  silent  Follower's  eyes ; 

Who  with  a  power  like  human  reason 

Discerns  the  favorable  season. 

Skilled  to  approach  or  to  retire,  — 

From  looks  conceiving  her  desire  ; 

From  look,  deportment,  voice,  or  mien. 

That  vary  to  the  heart  within. 

K  she  too  passionately  wreathed 

Her  arms,  or  over-deeply  breathed, 

"Walked  quick  or  slowly,  every  mood 

In  its  degree  was  understood  ; 

Then  well  may  their  accord  be  true. 

And  kindliest  intercourse  ensue. 

—  Oh  !  surely  'twas  a  gentle  rousing 

"Wlien  she  by  sudden  glimpse  espied 

The  "White  Doe  on  the  mountain  browsing, 

Or  in  the  meadow  wandered  wide ! 

How  pleased,  when  down  the  Straggler  sanl 

Beside  her,  on  some  sunny  bank ! 

How  soothed,  wheti,  in  thick  bower  mclosed. 

They,  like  a  nested  pair,  reposed  ! 

Fair  "Vision  !  when  it  crossed  the  Maid 

Within  some  rocky  cavern  laid, 

The  dark  cave's  portal  gliding  by, 

lot,.    IV.  5 


5G  POEMS    OP   TUE    IMAGINATION. 

Wlute  as  whitest  cloud  on  hia;h 
Floating  through  the  azure  sky. 
—  What  now  is  left  for  pain  or  fear  ? 
That  Presence,  dearer  and  more  dear 
While  they,  side  by  side,  were  straying. 
And  the  shepherd's  pipe  was  playing, 
Did  now  a  very  gladness  yield 
At  morning  to  the  dewy  field, 
And  with  a  deeper  peace  endued 
The  hour  of  moonlight  solitude. 

With  her  Companion,  in  such  frame 
Of  mind,  to  Rylstone  back  she  came  ; 
And,  I'ansring  through  the  wasted  gi-oves- 
Received  the  memory  of  old  love&. 
Undisturbed  and  undistrest, 
Into  a  soul  which  now  was  blest 
AVith  a  soft  s[)ring-day  of  holy. 
Mild,  and  grateful  melancholy: 
Not  sunless  gloom  or  unenlightened. 
But  by  tender  fancies  brightened. 

When  the  bells  of  Rylstone  played 
Their  Sabbath  music,  —  "  (Sob  Its  rtllbe  !  " 
That  was  the  sound  they  seenusd  to  s|)eak ; 
Inscriptive  legend  which  I  ween 
May  on  tho^e  holy  bells  be  seen, 
That  legend  and  her  Grandsire's  name  j 
And  oftentimes  the  Lady  meek 
Had  in  her  childhood  read  the  same  ; 


^5 


THE    WUITE    DOK    OF    KYLSTONE.  67 

Words  which  she  slighted  at  that  day  ; 

But  now,  when  such  sad  change  was  wrought. 

And  of  that  lonely  name  she  thought, 

The  bells  of  Rylstone  seemed  to  say, 

While  she  sat  hstening  in  the  shade, 

With  vocal  music,  "  (B»ob  US  aijbc! 

And  all  the  hills  were  glad  to  bear 

Their  part  in  this  effectual  prayer. 

Nor  lacked  she  Reason's  firmest  power; 
But  with  the  White  Doe  at  her  side. 
Up  would  she  climb  to  Norton  Tower, 
And  thence  look  round  her  far  and  wide, 
Her  fate  there  measuring ;  —  all  is  .^tilled,  - 
The  weak  one  hath  subdued  her  heart ; 
Behold  the  prophecy  fulfilled, 
Fulfilled,  and  she  sustains  her  part ! 
But  here  her  Brother's  words  have  failed  ; 
Here  hath  a  milder  doom  prevailed ; 
That  she,  of  him  and  all  bereft, 
Hath  yet  this  faithful  Partner  left ; 
This  one  Associate,  that  disproves 
His  words,  remains  for  her,  and  loves. 
If  tears  are  shed,  they  do  not  fall 
For  loss  of  him,  — for  one,  or  all ; 
Yet,  sometimes,  sometimes  doth  she  weep. 
Moved  gently  in  her  soul's  soft  sleep ; 
A  few  tears  down  her  cheek  descend 
For  this  her  last  and  living  Friend. 


R8  P0EM8    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Bless,  tender  Hearts,  their  mutual  lot, 
And  bless  for  both  this  savage  spot, 
Which  Emily  doth  sacred  hold 
For  reasons  dear  and  manifold ;  — 
Here  hath  she,  here  before  her  sight, 
Close  to  the  summit  of  this  height. 
The  grassy,  rock-encircled  Pound 
In  which  the  Creature  first  was  found. 
So  beautiful  the  timid  Thrall 
(A  spotless  Youngling  white  as  foam) 
Her  youngest  Brother  brought  it  home ; 
The  youngest,  then  a  lusty  boy, 
Bore  it,  or  led,  to  Rylstone  hall 
With  heart  brimful  of  pride  and  joy ! 

But  most  to  Bolton's  sacred  Pile, 
On  favoring  nights,  she  loved  to  go  ; 
There  ranged  through  cloister,  court,  and  aisle, 
Attended  by  the  soft-paced  Doe  ; 
Nor  feared  she  in  the  still  moonshine 
To  look  upon  Saint  Mary's  shrine ; 
Nor  on  the  lonely  turf  that  showed 
Where  Francis  slept  in  his  last  abode. 
For  that  she  came  ;  there  oft  she  sat 
Forlorn,  but  not  disconsolate  : 
And  when  she  from  the  abyss  returned 
Of  thought,  she  neither  shrunk  nor  mourned 
Was  happy  that  she  lived  to  greet 
Her  mute  Companion,  as  it  lay 
In  love  and  pity  at  her  feet; 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  60 

How  happy  in  its  turn  to  meet 

The  recognition  !  the  mild  glance 

Beamed  from  that  gracious  countenance  ; 

Communication,  like  the  ray 

Of  a  new  morning,  to  the  nature 

And  prospects  of  the  inferior  Creature  ! 

A  mortal  Song  we  sing,  by  dower 
Encoui-aged  of  celestial  power  ; 
Power  which  the  viewless  Spirit  shed 
By  whom  we  were  first  visited  ; 
Whose  voice  we  heard,  whose  hand  and  wings 
Swept  like  a  breeze  the  conscious  strings, 
"When,  left  in  solitude,  erewhile 
We  stood  before  this  ruined  Pile, 
And,  quitting  unsubstantial  dreamSj 
Sang  in  this  Presence  kindred  themes  ; 
Distress  and  desolation  spread 
Through  human  hearts,  and  pleasure  dead,  — 
Dead,  but  to  live  again  on  earth, 
A  second  and  yet  nobler  birth  ; 
Dire  overthrow,  and  yet  how  high 
The  reascent  in  sanctity  ! 
From  fair  to  fairer  ;  day  by  day 
A  more  divine  and  loftier  way ! 
Even  such  this  blessed  Pilgrim  trod, 
By  sorrow  lifted  towards  her  God  ; 
Uplifted  to  the  purest  sky 
Of  undisturbed  mortality. 
Her  own  thoughts  loved  she  ;  and  could  bend 


70  POEMS    OF    THK    IMAGIISrATlON. 

A  dear  look  to  her  lowly  Friend , 
There  stopped  ;  her  thirst  was  satisfied 
With  what  this  innocent  spring  supplied  : 
Her  sanction  inwardly  she  bore, 
And  stood  apart  from  human  cares : 
But  to  the  world  returned  no  more, 
Although  with  no  unwilling  mind 
Help  did  she  give  at  need,  and  joined 
The  Wharfdale  peasants  in  their  prayera 
At  length,  thus  faintly,  faintly  tied 
To  earth,  she  was  set  free,  and  died. 
Thy  soul,  exalted  Emily, 
Maid  of  the  blasted  family, 
Rose  to  the  God  from  whom  it  came  ! 
—  In  Rylstone  church  her  mortal  frame 
Was  buried,  by  her  Mother's  side. 

Most  glorious  sunset !  and  a  ray 
Survives  —  the  twilight  of  this  day  — 
In  that  fair  Creature  whom  the  fields 
Support,  and  whom  the  forest  shields  ; 
Who,  having  filled  a  holy  place, 
Partakes,  in  her  degree.  Heaven's  grace ; 
And  bears  a  memory  and  a  mind 
Raised  far  above  the  law  of  kind  ; 
Haunting  the  spots  with  lonely  cheer 
Wiiich  her  dear  Mistress  once  held  dear : 
Loves  most  what  Emily  loved  most,  — 
The  inclosure  of  this  churchyard  ground  ■■, 
Here  wanders  like  a  gliding  giiost, 


THE    WHITE    DOE    OF    RYLSTONE.  71 

And  every  Sabbath  here  is  found  ; 

Comes  with  the  people  when  the  bells 

Are  heard  among  the  moorland  dells, 

Finds  entrance  througli  yon  arch,  where  way 

Lies  open  on  the  Sabbath-day  ; 

Here  walks  amid  the  mournful  waste 

Of  prostrate  altars,  shrines  defaced, 

And  floors  encumbered  with  rich  show 

Of  fret-work  imagery  laid  low  ; 

Paces  softly,  or  makes  halt. 

By  fractured  cell,  or  tomb,  or  vault ; 

By  plate  of  monumental  brass 

Dim-gleaming  among  weeds  and  grass, 

And  sculptured  Forms  of  Warriors  brave : 

But  chiefly  by  that  single  grave, 

That  one  sequestered  hillock  green, 

The  pensive  visitant  is  seen. 

There  doth  the  gentle  Creature  lie 

With  those  adversities  unmoved  ; 

Calm  spectacle,  by  earth  and  sky 

In  their  benignity  approved  ! 

And  aye,  methinks,  this  hoary  Pile, 

Subdued  by  outrage  and  decay, 

Looks  down  upon  her  with  a  smile, 

A  gracious  smile,  that  seems  to  say,  — 

"  Thou,  thou  art  not  a  Child  of  Time. 

But  Daughter  of  the  Eternal  Prime  !  " 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SONNETS. 

m   SERIES. 


PART  I. 

FROM    THE    INTRODUCTION    OF   CHRISTIANITT    INTO 

BRITAIN,   TO    THE    CONSUMMMATION    OF    THE 

PAPAL    DOMINION. 

"  A  verse  may  catch  a  wandering  Soul,  that  flies 
Profounder  Tracts,  and  by  a  blest  surprise 
Convert  delight  into  a  Sacrifice." 


I. 


INTISODUCTION. 


I,  WHO  accompanied  with  faithful  pace 
Cerulean  Duddon  from  its  cloud-fed  spring, 
And  loved  with  spirit  ruled  by  his  to  sing 
Of  mountuin-quiet  and  boon  natun^'s  grace, — 
I,  wlio  essayed  tlie  nobler  Stream  to  trace 
Of  Liberty,  and  smote  the  plausive  string 
Till  the  cliecked  torrent,  proudly  triumphing. 
Won  for  herself  a  lasting  resting-place, — 


Tk* 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  73 

Now  seek  upon  the  heights  of  Time  the  source 
Of  a  Holy  River,  on  whose  banks  are  found 
Sweet  pastoral    flowers,   and    laurels    that    have 

crowned 
Full  oft  the  unworthy  brow  of  lawless  force  ; 
And,  for  delight  of  him  who  tracks  its  course, 
Immoi'tal  amaranth  and  palms  abound. 

II. 

CONJECTURES. 

If  there  be  prophets  on  whose  spirits  rest 
Past  things,  revealed  like  future,  they  can  tell 
Whit  Powers,  presiding  o'er  the  sacred  well 
Of  Christian  Faith,  this  savage  Island  blessed 
With  its  first  bounty.     Wandering  through  the  west, 
Did  holy  Paul*  a  while  in  Britain  dwell, 
And  call  the  Fountain  forth  by  miracle. 
And  with  dread  signs  the  nascent  Stream  invest  ? 
Or  he,  whose  bonds  dropped  off,  whose  prison  doors 
Flew  open,  by  an  Angel's  voice  unbarred  ? 
Or  some  of  humbler  name,  to  these  wild  shores 
Storm-driven,  who,  having  seen  the  cup  of  woe 
Pass  from  their  Master,  sojourned  here  to  guard 
The  precious  Current  they  had  taught  to  flow  ? 

*  See  Not«. 


l'Ui:.MS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


III. 

TREPIDATION   OF  THE  DKUIDS. 

ScKEAMS  round  the  Arch-druid's  brow  the  sea- 
mew,*  —  white 
As  Menai's  foam  ;  and  toward  the  mystic  ring 
Where  Augurs  stand,  the  Future  questioning, 
Slowly  the  cormorant  aims  her  heavy  flight, 
Portending  ruin  to  each  baleful  rite, 
Tliat,  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  hath  crept  o'er 
Diluvian  truths,  and  patriarchal  lore. 
Haughty  the  J^ard  :  can  these  meek  doctrines  blight 
His  transports  ?  wither  his  heroic  strains  ? 
But  all  shall  be  fulfilled  ;  —  the  Julian  spear 
A  way  first  opened  ;  and,  with  Roman  chains. 
The  tidings  come  of  Jesus  crucified  ; 
They  come,  —  they  spread,  —  the  weak,  the  suffer- 
ing, hear ; 
Receive  the  faith,  and  in  the  hope  abide. 


IV. 

DKUIDIOAL  EXCOMMCNICATION. 

Mercy  and  Love  have  met  thee  on  thy  road, 
Thou  wretched  Outcast,  from  the  gift  of  fire 

*  This  water-fowl  was,  among  the  Druids,  an  emblem  tf 
those  traditions  connected  witli  the  dehige  tliat  made  an  inipov- 
lunt  part  of  their  mysteries.  The  Connorant  was  a  bird  of  bml 
omen. 


ECCLESIASTICAL      SONNETS.  iO 

A.nd  food  cut  off  by  sacerdotal  ire, 
From  every  sympathy  that  Man  bestowed  ! 
Yet  shall  it  claim  our  reverence,  that  to  God, 
Ancient  of  days  !  that  to  the  eternal  Sire, 
These  jealous  Ministers  of  law  aspire, 
As  to  the  one  sole  fount  whence  wisdom  flowed. 
Justice,  and  order.     Tremblingly  escaped. 
As  if  with  prescience  of  the  coming  storm, 
Thai  intimation  when  the  stars  were  shaped  ; 
And  still,  'mid  yon  thick  woods,  the  primal  truth 
Glimmers  through  many  a  superstitious  form 
That  fills  the  Soul  with  unavailing  ruth. 

V. 

UNCERTAINTY. 

Darkness  surrounds  us  ;  seeking,  we  are  lost 
On  Snowdon's  wilds,  amid  Brigantian  coves, 
Or  where  the  solitary  shepherd  roves 
Along  the  plain  of  Sarum,  by  the  ghost 
Of  Time  and  shadows  of  Tradition  crost ; 
And  where  the  boatman  of  the  Western  Islea 
Slackens  his  course,  to  mark  those  holy  piles 
Which  yet  survive  on  bleak  lona's  coast. 
Nor  these,  nor  monuments  of  eldest  name, 
Nor  Taliesin's  unforgotten  lays, 
Nor  characters  of  Greek  or  Roman  fame, 
To  an  imquestionable  Source  have  led ; 
Enough,  if  eyes,  that  sought  the  fountain-head 
In  vain,  upon  the  growing  Rill  rnay  gaze. 


76  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


VI. 

PERSECUTION. 

Lament  !  for  Diocletian's  fiery  sword 
Works  busy  as  tlie  lightning ;  but  instinct 
With  E3alice  ne'er  to  deadliest  weapon  linked, 
Whicli  God's  ethereal  store-houses  afford  : 
Against  the  Followers  of  the  incarnate  Lord 
It  rages  ;  —  some  are  smitten  in  the  field,  — 
Some  pierced  to  the  heart  through  the  ineffectual 

shield 
Of  sacred  home  ;  —  with  pomp  are  others  gored, 
And  dreadful  respite.     Thus  was  Alban  tried, 
England's  first  Martyr,  whom  no   threats    could 

shake  ; 
Self-offered  victim,  for  his  friend  he  died, 
And  for  the  faith  ;  nor  shall  his  name  forsake 
That  Hill,  whose  flowery  platform  seems  to  rise 
By  Nature  decked  for  holiest  sacrifice.* 

VII. 

KECOVERY. 

As,  when  a  storm  hath  ceased,  the  birds  regain 
Their  cheerfulness,  and  busily  retrini 
Tiieir  nests,  or  chant  a  gratulating  hymn 
To  the  blue  ether  and  bespangled  plain ; 

*  See  Note. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  77 

Even  so,  in  many  a  reconstructed  fane, 
Have  the  survivors  of  this  storm  renewed 
Their  holy  rites  with  vocal  gratitude  : 
And  solemn  ceremonials  they  ordain 
To  celebrate  their  great  deliverance ; 
Most  feelingly  instructed  'mid  their  fear, — 
That  persecution,  blind  with  rage  extreme, 
May  not  the  less,  through  Heaven's  mild  counte- 
nance, 
Even  in  her  own  despite,  both  feed  and  cheer ; 
For  all  things  are  less  dreadful  than  they  seem. 


VIII. 

TEMPTATIONS  FKOM   KOMAN  REFINEMENTS. 

Watch,  and  be  firm  !  for  soul-subduing  vice, 
Heart-killing  luxury,  on  your  steps  await. 
Fair  houses,  baths,  and  banquets  delicate, 
And  temples  flashing,  bright  as  polar  ice, 
Their  radiance  through  the  woods,  may  yet  suffice 
To  sap  your  hardy  virtue,  and  abate 
Your  love  of  Him  upon  whose  forehead  sate 
The  crown  of  thorns  ;  whose  life-blood  flowed,  the 

price 
Of  your  redemption.     Shun  the  insidious  arts 
That  Rome  provides,  less  dreading  from  her  frown 
Than  from  her  wily  praise,  her  peaceful  gown, 
tjanguage,  and   letters  ;  —  these,   though   fondly 

viewed 


78  POEJIS    or    THK    lilAGlJJATION. 

As  humanizing  graces,  are  but  parts 
And  instruments  of  deadliest  servitude  1 


IX. 

DISSENSIONS. 

That  heresies  should  strike  (if  truth  be  scanned 
Presumptuously)  their  roots  both  wide  and  deep, 
Is  natural  as  dreams  to  feverish  sleep. 
Lo  !  Discord  at  the  altar  dares  to  stand, 
Uplifting  toward  high  Heaven  her  fiery  bi'and, 
A  cherished  Priestess  of  the  new-baptized  ! 
But  chastisement  shall  follow  peace  despised. 
Tlie  Pictish  cloud  darkens  the  enervate  land 
By  Rome  abandoned  ;  vain  are  suppliant  cries, 
And  prayers  that  would  undo  her  forced  farewell; 
For  she  returns  not.  —  Awed  by  her  own  knell, 
She  casts  the  Britons  upon  strange  Allies, 
Soon  to  become  more  dreaded  enemies 
Than  heartless  misery  called  them  to  repel. 


STRUGGLE  OF  THE   BUITONS   AGAINST  THE   BAKBAIIIAMS. 

Risk  !  —  they  have  risen  :  of  brave  Aneurin  ask 
How  they  liave  scourged  old  foes,  perlidioiis  friends 
Th(i  Spirit  of  Caractacus  descends 
Upon  tlie  Patriots,  animates  their  task  ; 
Amazement  ru?is  before  the  towering  casque 
Of  Arthur,  bearing  through  the  stormy  field 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SOKNETS. 


7Q 


I'he  Virgin  sciilptnred  on  his  Christian  shii;ld  :  — 
Stretched  in  the  sunny  light  of  victory  bask 
The  Host  that  followed  Urien  as  he  strode 
O'er  heaps  of  slain  ;  —  from  Cambrian  wood  and 

moss 
Druids  descend,  auxiliars  of  the  Cross  ; 
Bards,  nursed  on  blue  PlinUmmon's  still  abode, 
Rush  on  the  fight,  to  harps  preferring  swords, 
And  everlasting  deeds  to  burning  words  ! 


XI. 

SAXON   CONQUEST. 


Nor  wants  the  cause  the  panic-striking  aid 

Of  hallelujahs  *  tost  from  hill  to  hill, 

For  instant  victory.     But  Heaven's  high  will 

Permits  a  second  and  a  darker  shade 

Of  Pagan  night.     Afflicted  and  dismayed, 

The  Relics  of  the  sword  flee  to  the  mountains : 

O  wretched  Land !  whose  tears  have  flowed  like 

fountains ; 
Whose  arts  and  honors  in  the  dust  are  laid 
By  men  yet  scarcely  conscious  of  a  care 
For  other  monuments  than  those  of  Earth  ; 
Who.  as  the  fields  and  woods  have  given  them  binh, 
Will  build  their  savage  fortunes  only  there ; 
Content,  if  foss,  and  barrow,  and  the  girth 
Of  long-drawn  rampart,  witness  what  they  were. 

*  See  Note. 


RO  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XII. 

MONASTERY  OF   OLD  BANGOR.* 

The  oppression  of  the  tumult,  —  wrath  and  scorn.  — 
The  tribulation,  —  and  the  gleaming  blades,  — 
Such  is  the  impetuous  spirit  that  pervades 
The  song  of  Taliesin  ;  —  Ours  shall  mourn 
The  unarmed  Host  who  by  their  prayers  would 

turn 
The  sword  from  Bangor's  walls,  and  guard  the  store 
Of  Aboriginal  and  Roman  lore, 
And  Christian  monuments,  that  now  must  burn 
To  senseless  ashes.     Mark !  how  all  things  swerve 
From  their  known  course,  or  vanish  like  a  dream ; 
Another  language  spreads  from  coast  to  coast ; 
Only  perchance  some  melancholy  Stream 
And  some  indignant  Hills  old  names  preserve, 
When  laws,  and  creeds,  and  people  all  are  lost ! 

XIII. 

CASUAL.  INCITEMENT. 

A  BRiGHT-nAiRiCD  company  of  youtliful  slaves, 
Beautiful  strangers,  stand  within  the  pale 
Of  a  sad  market,  ranged  for  public  sale, 
Wliere  Tiljcr's  stream  the  Immortal  City  laves: 
Anoli  by  name  ;  and  not  an  Angel  waves 

♦  See  Note. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  81 

His  wing  who  could  seem  lovelier  to  maa's  eye 
Tlian  they  appear  to  holy  Gregory ; 
Who,  having  learnt  that  name,  salvation  craves 
For  them,  and  for  their  Land.     The  earnest  Sire, 
His  questions  urging,  feels,  in  slender  ties 
or  chiming  sound,  commanding  sympathies  ; 
De-irians,  —  he  would  save  them  from  God's  Ire; 
Subjects  of  Saxon  ^lla,  they  shall  sing 
Glad  HALLE-lujahs  to  the  Eternal  King! 


XIV. 

GLAD  TIDIKGS. 

Fob  ever  hallowed  be  this  morning  fair. 
Blest  be  the  unconscious  shore  on  which  ye  tread. 
And  blest  the  silver  Cross,  which  ye,  instead 
Of  martial  banner,  in  procession  bear ; 
The  Cross  preceding  Him  who  floats  in  air, 
The  pictured  Saviour !  —  By  Augustin  led. 
They  come,  —  and  onward  travel  without  dread, 
Chanting  in  barbarous  ears  a  tuneful  prayer,  — 
Sung  for  themselves,  and  those  whom  they  v\ould 

ft-ee ! 
Rich  conquest  waits  them:  —  the  tempestuous  sea 
Of  Ignorance,  that  ran  so  rough  and  high, 
And  heeded  not  the  voice  of  clashing  swords. 
These  good  men  humble  by  a  few  bare  words, 
And  calm  with  fear  of  God's  divmity. 

VOL   IV  fi 


82  POEMS    OF    Tin:    IMAGINATIOJf. 

XV. 

PAULU.'US.* 

Bdt,  to  remote  Northuinbria's  royal  Hall, 
Where  thoughtful  Edwin,  tutored  in  the  scliocl 
Of  sorrow,  still  maintains  a  heathen  rule, 
Who  comes  with  functions  apostolical  ? 
Mark  him,  of  shoulders  curved,  and  stature  tall, 
Black  hair,  and  vivid  eye,  and  meagre  cheek, 
His  prominent  feature  like  an  eagle's  beak ; 
A  Man  whose  aspect  doth  at  once  appall 
And  strike  with  reverence.     The  Monarch  leans 
Toward  the  pure  truths  this  Delegate  propounds, 
Repeatedly  his  own  deep  mind  he  sounds 
With  careful  hesitation,  —  then  convenes 
A  synod  of  his  Councillors  :  —  give  ear, 
And  what  a  pensive  Sage  doth  utter,  hear  I 

XVI. 

PEE8UASION. 

"Man's  life  is  like  a  Sparrow,  mighty  King! 
That  —  while  at  banquet  with  your  Chiefs  you  sit 
Housed  near  a  blazing  lire  —  is  seen  to  Hit 
Safe  from  the  wintry  tempest.     Fluttering, 
Here,  did  it  enter  ;  there,  on  hasty  wing, 
Flies  out,  and  passes  on  from  cold  to  cold ; 

♦  See  Note. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  83 

But  whence  it  came  we  know  not,  nor  behold 
Whither  it  goes.     Even  such,  that  transient  Thing, 
The  human  Soul ;  not  utterly  unknown 
While  in  the  Body  lodged,  her  warm  abode ; 
But  from  what  world  she  came,  what  woe  or  weal 
On  iier  departure  waits,  no  tongue  hath  shown ; 
This  mystery  if  the  Stranger  can  reveal, 
His  be  a  welcome  cordially  bestowed  !  "  * 

XVII. 

CONVERSION. 

Prompt  transformation  works  the  novel  Lore ; 
The  Council  closed,  the  Priest  in  full  career 
Rides  forth,  an  armed  man,  and  hurls  a  spear 
To  desecrate  the  Fane  which  heretofore 
He  served  in  folly.     Woden  falls,  and  Thor 
Is  overturned ;  the  mace,  in  battle  heaved 
(So  might  they  dream)  till  victory  was  achieved, 
Drops,  and  the  God  himself  is  seen  no  more. 
Temple  and  Altar  sink,  to  hide  their  shame 
Amid  oblivious  weeds.     "  0  come  to  me. 
Ye  heavy  laden  !  "  such  the  inviting  voice 
Heard  near  fresh  streams  ;  f  and  thousands,  who 

rejoice 
In  the  new  Rite, —  the  pledge  of  sanctity, 
Shall,  by  regenerate  life,  the  promise  claim. 

*  See  Note.  t  See  Note. 


84  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XVIII. 
APOLOGY. 

Nor  scorn  the  aid  whicli  Fancy  oft  doth  lend 
The  Soul's  eternal  interests  to  promote: 
Death,  darkness,  danger,  are  our  natural  lot ; 
And  evil  Spirits  may  our  walk  attend, 
For  aught  the  wisest  know  or  comprehend ; 
Then  be  good  Spirits  free  to  breathe  a  note 
Of  elevation  ;  let  their  odors  float 
Ai'ound  these  Converts  ;  and  their  glories  blend. 
The  midnight  stars  outshining,  or  the  blaze 
Of  the  noonday.     Nor  doubt  tliat  golden  cords 
Of  good  works,  mingling  with  the  visions,  itiise 
The  Soul  to  purer  worlds:  and  loho  the  line 
Shall  draw,  the  limits  of  the  power  define, 
That  even  imperfect  faith  to  man  affords  ? 

XIX. 

PiaMITlVE   SAXON   CLKHGY.* 

How  beautiful  your  pi'esence,  how  benign, 
Servants  of  God !  who  not  a  thought  will  share 
Witli  the  vain  world;  wlio,  outwardly  as  bare 
As  winter  trees,  yield  no  fallacious  sign 
That  the  firm  soul  is  clothed  with  fruit  divine  1 
Such  Priest,  when  service  worthy  of  his  care  . 

*  See  Note. 


ECCLES1A.STICAL    SONNETS.  8S 

Has  called  him  forth  to  breathe  the  common  air, 
Might  seem  a  saintly  Image  from  its  shrine 
Descended :  —  happy  are  the  eyes  that  meet 
The  Apparition  ;  evil  thoughts  are  stayed 
At  his  approach,  and  low-bowed  necks  entreat 
A  benediction  from  his  voice  or  hand; 
Whence  grace,  tlii'ough  which  the  heart  can  under- 
stand, 
And  vows,  that  bind  the  will,  in  silence  made. 

XX. 

OTHER  INFLUENCES. 

Ah,  when  the  Body,  round  which  in  love  we  clmig, 

Is  chilled  by  death,  does  mutual  service  fail  ? 

Is  tender  pity  then  of  no  avail  ? 

Are  intercessions  of  the  fervent  tongue 

A  waste  of  hope  ?  —  From  this  sad  source  have 

sprung 
Rites  that  console  the  Spirit,  under  grief 
Which  ill  can  brook  more  rational  relief: 
Hence,  prayers  are  shaped  amiss,  and  dirges  sung 
For  Souls  whose  doom  is  fixed !  The  way  is  smooth 
For  Power  that  travels  with  the  human  heart : 
Confession  ministers  the  pang  to  soothe 
In  him  who  at  the  ghost  of  guilt  doth  start. 
Ye  holy  Men,  so  earnest  in  your  care. 
Of  your  own  mighty  instruments  beware  ! 


86  POEMS    OK    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXI. 

SECLUSION. 

Lanok,  shield,  and  sword  relinquished,  at  his  side 

A  bead-i'oll,  in  his  iiand  a  clasped  book, 

Or  statt"  more  harmless  than  a  shepherd's  crook, 

The  war-worn  Chieftain  quits  the  world,  to  hide 

His  thin  autumnal  locks  where  Monks  abide 

In  cloistered  privacy.     But  not  to  dwell 

In  soft  repose  he  comes.     AVithin  his  cell, 

Round  the  decaying  trunk  of  human  pride, 

At  morn,  and  eve,  and  midnight's  silent  hour 

Do  penitential  cogitations  cling  ; 

Like  ivy,  round  some  ancient  elm,  they  twine 

In  grisly  folds  and  strictures  serpentine ; 

Yet,  while  they  strangle,  a  fair  growth  they  bring, 

For  recompense,  —  their  own  perennial  bower. 

XXII. 

CONTINUED. 

Mkthinks  that  to  some  vacant  hermitage 
My  feet  would  rather  turn, —  to  some  dry  nook 
S(!ooped  out  of  living  rock,  and  near  a  brook 
Hulled  down  a  mountain-cove  from  stage  to  stage, 
Yet  tempering,  for  my  sight,  its  bustling  rage 
In  the  soft  heaven  of  a  translucent  pool ; 
Tlujnce  creeping  under  sylvan  arches  cool, 
Fit  Iruint  of  shapes  whose  glorious  equipage 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  87 

Would  elevate  my  dreams.     A  beechen  bowl, 
A.  maple  dish,  my  furniture  should  be  ; 
Crisp,  yellow  leaves  my  bed  ;  the  hooting  owl 
My  night-watch :  nor  should  e'er  the  crested  fowl 
From  thorp  or  vill  his  matins  sound  for  me, 
Tired  of  the  world  and  all  its  industry. 


XXIII. 

REPROOF. 

But  what  if  one,  through  grove  or  flowery  mead 

Indulging  thus  at  will  the  creeping  feet 

Of  a  voluptuous  indolence,  should  meet 

Thy  hovering  Sliade,  O  venerable  Bede ! 

The  saint,  the  scholar,  from  a  circle  freed 

Of  toil  stupendous,  in  a  hallowed  seat 

Of  learning,  where  thou  heard'st  the  billows  beat 

On  a  wild  coast,  rough  monitors  to  feed 

Perpetual  industry.     Sublime  Recluse ! 

The  recreant  soul,  that  dares  to  shun  the  debt 

Imposed  on  human  kind,  must  first  forget 

Thy  diligence,  thy  unrelaxing  use 

Of  a  long  life  ;  and,  in  the  hour  of  death, 

J  he  last  dear  service  of  tliy  passing  breath  !  * 

*  Ha  expired  dictating  the  last  words  of  a  translatiou  of 
St.  John's  Gospel. 


88  rOEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATIOX. 


XXIV. 

fe^XON  MONASTERIES,    AND   LIGHTS   AND   SHADES    OP 
TUE   KELIGION. 

By  such  examples  iiio\  ud  to  unbought  pains, 
The  people  work  like  congregated  bees  ; 
Eager  to  build  the  quiet  Fortresses 
Where  Piety,  as  they  believe,  obtains 
From  Heaven  a  general  blessing  ;  timely  rains 
Or  needful  sunshine ;  prosperous  enterprise, 
Justice  and  peace  :  —  bold  faith  !  yet  also  rise 
The  sacred  Structures  for  less  doubtful  gains. 
The  Sensual  think  with  reverence  of  the  palms 
Which  the  cliaste  Votaries  seek,  beyond  the  grave ; 
If  penance  be  redeemable,  thence  alms 
Flow  to  the  poor,  and  freedom  to  the  slave ; 
And  if  full  oft  the  Sanctuary  save 
Lives  black  with  guilt,  ferocity  it  calms.  • 


XXV. 

MISSIONS   AND   TRAVELS. 

Not  sedentary  all  :  there  are  who  roam 
To  scatter  seeds  of  life  on  barbarous  shores ; 
Or  quit  with  zealous  step  their  knee-worn  floors 
To  seek  the  general  mart  of  Christendom  ; 
Wln',nce  they,  like  richly  laden  merchants,  come 
To  their  beloved  cells  :  —  or  shall  we  say 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  89 

riiat,  like  the  Red-cross  Knight,  they  urge  their 

way, 
To  lead  in  memorable  triumph  home 
Truth,  their  immortal  Una  ?     Babylon, 
Learned  and  wise,  hath  perished  utterly, 
Nor  leaves  her  Speech  one  word  to  aid  the  sigh 
That  would  lament  her ;  —  Memphis,  Tyre,  are  gone 
With  all  their  Arts  :  —  but  classic  lore  glides  on, 
By  tliese  Religious  saved  for  all  posterity. 


XXVI. 

ALFRED. 

Behold  a  pupil  of  the  monkish  gown, 

The  pious  Alfred,  King  to  Justice  dear ! 

Lord  of  the  harp  and  liberating  spear ; 

Mirror  of  Princes  !     Indigent  Renown 

Miaht  ransie  the  starry  ether  for  a  crown 

Equal  to  his  deserts,  who  hke  a  year 

Pours  forth  his  bounty,  like  a  day  doth  cheer. 

And  awes  like  night  with  mercy-tempered  frown. 

Ease  from  this  noble  miser  of  his  time 

No  moment  steals  ;  pain  narrows  not  his  cares.* 

Though  small  his  kingdom  as  a  spark  or  gem 

Of  Alfred  boasts  remote  Jerusalem, 

And  Christian  India,  through  her  wide-spread  clime, 

\a  sacred  converse  gifts  with  Alfred  shares. 

*  See  Note. 


90  i'OEMS    OF  THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXVII. 

HIS  DESCENDANTS. 


When  thy  great  soul  was  freed  from  mortal  chains, 
Darling  of  England  !  many  a  bitter  shower 
Fell  on  thy  tomb  ;  but  emulative  power 
Flowed  in  thy  line  through  undegenerate  veins. 
The  Race  of  Alfred  covet  glorious  pains 
AVlien  dangers  threaten,  dangers  ever  new  ! 
Black  tempests  bui'sting,  blacker  still  in  view  ! 
But  manly  sovereignty  its  hold  retains  ; 
The  root  sincere,  the  branches  bold  to  strive 
With  the  fierce  tempest,  while,  within  the  round 
Of  their  protection,  gentle  virtues  thrive  ; 
As  oft,  'mid  some  green  plot  of  open  ground, 
Wide  as  the  oak  extends  its  dewy  gloom, 
The  fostered  hyacinths  spread  their  purple  blooru. 


XXVIII. 

INFLUENCE  ABUSED. 


Urged  by  Ambition,  who  with  subtlest  skill 
Changes  her  means,  the  Enthusiast  as  a  dupe 
Shall  soar,  and  as  a  hypocrite  can  stoop, 
And  turn  tlie  instruments  of  good  to  ill. 
Moulding  the  credulous  people  to  his  will. 
Such  DuNSTAN  :  —  from  its  Benedictine  coop 
Issues  the  ^la^ter  ^liiid,  at  whose  fell  swoop 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  91 

The  chaste  affections  tremble  to  fulfil 

Their  purposes.     Behold,  pre-signified, 

The  Might  of  spiritual  sway !   his  thoughts,  his 

dreams, 
Do  in  the  supernatural  world  abide  : 
vSo  vaunt  a  throng  of  Followers,  filled  with  pride 
In  what  they  see  of  virtues  pushed  to  extremes, 
And  sorceries  of  talent  misapplied. 


XXIX. 

DANISH   CONQUESTS. 

Woe  to  the  Crown  that  doth  the  Cowl  obey  !  * 
Dissension,  checking  arms  that  would  restrain 
The  incessant  Rovers  of  the  Northern  main, 
Helps  to  restore  and  spread  a  Pagan  sway : 
But  Gospel-truth  is  potent  to  allay 
Fierceness  and  rage  ;  and  soon  the  cruel  Dane 
Feels,  through  the  influence  of  her  gentle  reign, 
His  native  superstitions  melt  away. 
Thus,  often,  when  thick  gloom  the  easto'ershrouds, 
The  full-orbed  Moon,  slow  climbing,  doth  appear 
Silently  to  consume  the  heavy  clouds  ; 
How  no  one  can  resolve ;  but  every  eye 
.\round  her  sees,  while  air  is  hushed,  a  clear 
^nd  widening  circuit  of  ethereal  sky. 

*  See  Note. 


92  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 


XXX. 

CANUTE. 


A  PLEASANT  music  floats  along  the  Mere, 
From  Monks  in  Ely  chanting  service  high, 
While-as  Canute  the  King  is  rowing  by  : 
"  My  Oarsmen,"  quoth  the  mighty  King,  *'  draw 

near, 
That  we  the  sweet  song  of  the  Monks  may  hear  !  " 
He  listens  (all  past  conquests  and  all  schemes 
Of  future  vanishing  like  empty  dreams) 
Heart-touched,  and  haply  not  without  a  tear. 
The  Royal  Minstrel,  ere  the  choir  is  still. 
While  his  free  Barge  skims  the  smooth  flood  along, 
Gives  to  that  rapture  an  accordant  Rhyme.* 
O  suffering  Earth  !  be  thankful ;  sternest  clime 
And  rudest  age  are  subject  to  the  thrill 
Of  heaven-descended  Piety  and  song. 


XXXI. 

THE   NOU.MAN    CONQUEST. 

The  woman-hearted  Confessor  prepares 

The  evanescence  of  tiie  Saxon  line. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  tolling  Curfew  !  —  the  stars  shine; 

But  of  the  ligiits  that  cherish  household  cares 

And  ftistivt'  gladness,  burns  not  one  that  dares 

*  Wliich  is  still  extant. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  93 

To  twinkle  after  that  dull  stroke  of  thine, 
Emblem  and  instrument,  from  Thames  to  Tyne, 
Of  force  that  daunts,  and  cunning  that  ensnares ! 
Yet  as  the  terrors  of  the  lordly  bell, 
That  quench,  from  hut  to  palace,  lamps  and  fires, 
Touch  not  the  tapers  of  the  sacred  choirs ; 
Even  so  a  thraldom,  studious  to  expel 
Old  laws,  and  ancient  customs  to  derange, 
To  Creed  or  Ritual  brings  no  fatal  change. 


XXXII. 

Coldly  we  spake.     The  Saxons,  overpowered 
By  wi-ong  triumphant  through  its  own  excess. 
From   fields    laid  waste,   from   house    and    home 

devoured 
By  flames,  look  up  to  heaven,  and  crave  redress 
From  God's  eternal  justice.     Pitiless 
Though  men  be,  there  are  angels  that  can  feel 
For  wounds  that  death  alone  has  power  to  heal, 
For  penitent  guilt,  and  innocent  distress. 
And  has  a  Champion  risen  in  arms  to  try 
His   Country's   virtue,   fought,    and    breathes   no 

more  ; 
Him  in  their  hearts  the  people  canonize ; 
And  far  above  the  mine's  most  precious  ore 
The  least  small  pittance  of  bare  mould  they  prize 
scooped  from   the  sacred  earth  where  his  dear 

relics  lie. 


J4  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXXIII. 

THE  COUNCIL  OF   CLERMONT. 

'•  And  shall,"  the  Pontiff  asks,  "  profaneness  flow 
From  Nazareth,  source  of  Christian  piety, 
From  Bethlehem,  from  the  Mounts  of  Agony 
And  glorified  ascension  ?     Warriors,  go. 
With  prayers  and  blessings  we  your  path  will  sow ; 
Like  Moses  hold  our  hands  erect,  till  ye 
Have  chased  far  off  by  righteous  victory 
These  sons  of  Amalek,  or  laid  them  low  !  "  — 
"God  willeth  it,"  the  whole  assembly  cry; 
Shout  which  the  enraptured  multitude  astounds  ! 
The  Council-roof  and  Clermont's  towers  reply;  — 
"  God  willeth  it,"  from  hill  to  hill  rebounds, 
And,  in  awe-stricken  Countries  far  and  nigh, 
Through    "  Nature's    hollow    arch "    that    voice 


o 


resounds.* 


XXXIV. 

CRUSADES. 

The  turbaned    Race   are   poured    in   thickening 

swarms 
Along  the  west;  though  driven  from  Aquitaine, 
The  Crescent  glitters  on  the  towers  of  Sjiain ; 
And  boft  Italia  feels  renewed  alarms  ; 

*  The  decision  of  this  Council  was  bolievod  to  be  instant!3' 
known  in  remote  parts  of  Europe. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  95 

The  cimeter,  that  pelds  not  to  the  charms 
Of  ease,  the  narrow  Bosphorus  will  disdain  ; 
Not  long  (that  crossed)  would  Grecian  hills  detain 
Their  tents,  and  check  the  current  of  their  arms. 
Then  blame  not  those  who,  by  the  mightiest  lever 
Known  to  the  moral  world.  Imagination, 
Upheave,  so  seems  it,  from  her  natural  station 
All  Christendom  :  —  they  sweep  along  (was  never 
So  huge  a  host !)  to  tear  from  the  Unbeliever 
The  precious  Tomb,  their  haven  of  salvation. 


XXXV. 

RICHAED    I. 

Redoubted  King,  of  courage  leonine, 

I  mark  thee,  Richard !  urgent  to  equip 

Thy  warlike  person  with  the  staff  and  scrip ; 

I  watch  thee  sailing  o'er  the  midland  brine ; 

In  conquered  Cyprus  see  thy  Bride  decline 

Her  blushing  cheek,  love-vows  upon  her  lip. 

And  see  love-emblems  streaming  from  thy  ship. 

As  thence  she  holds  her  way  to  Palestine. 

My  Song,  a  fearless  homager,  would  attend 

Thy  thundering  battle-axe  as  it  cleaves  the  press 

Of  war,  but  duty  summons  her  away 

To  tell  —  how,  finding  in  the  rash  distress 

Of  those  Enthusiasts  a  subservient  friend, 

To  giddier  heights  hath  clomb  the  Papal  sway. 


96  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXXVI. 
AN    INTERDICT. 

Rkalms  quake  by  turns  :  proud  Arbitrcss  of  grace. 
The  Churcli,  by    mandate    shadowing   forth    tlie 

power 
81ie  arrogates  o'er  heaven's  eternal  door, 
Closes  tlie  gates  of  every  sacred  place. 
Straight  from  the  sun  and  tainted  air's  embrace 
All  sacred  things  are  covered  :  cheerful  morn 
Grows  sad  as  night,  —  no  seemly  garb  is  worn, 
Nor  is  a  face  allowed  to  meet  a  face 
^Yith  natural  smiles  of  greeting.     Bells  are  dumb ; 
Ditches  are  graves,  —  funeral  rites  denied  ; 
And  in  the  churchyard  he  must  take  iiis  bride 
Who  dares  be  wedded  !     Fancies  tliickly  come 
Into  the  pensive  heart  ill  fortified, 
And  comfortless  despairs  the  soul  benumb. 


XXXVII. 

PAPAL  ABUSES. 

As  with  the  Stream  our  voyage  we  pursue, 
The  gross  materials  of  this  world  present 
A  marvellous  study  of  wild  accident ; 
Uncouth  proximities  of  old  and  new  ; 
And  bold  transfigurations,  more  untrue 
[Ai  might  be  deemed)  to  disciplined  intent 


ECCLKSIASTICAL    SONNETS.  r7 

I  ban  aught  the  sky's  fantastic  element, 
When  most  fantastic,  offers  to  the  view. 
Saw  we  not  Henry  scourged  at  Becket's  shrine  ? 
Lo  !  John  self-stripped  of  his  insignia  :  —  crown, 
Sceptre  and  mantle,  sword  and  ring,  laid  down 
At  a  proud  Legate's  feet !     The  spears  that  line 
Baronial  halls  the  opprobrious  insult  feel ; 
And  angry  Ocean  roars  a  vain  appeal. 


XXXVIII. 

SCENE  IN  VENICE. 

Black  Demons  hovering  o'er  his  mitred  head, 

To  Ca3sar's  successor  the  Pontiff  spake  : 

"  Ere  I  absolve  thee,  stoop  !  that  on  thy  neck 

Levelled  with  earth  this  foot  of  mine  may  tread. "^ 

Then  he,  who  to  the  altar  had  been  led, 

He  whose  strong  arm  the  Orient  could  not  check, 

He  who  had  held  the  Soldan  at  his  beck, 

Stooped,  of  all  glory  disinherited, 

And  even  the  common  dignity  of  man  !  — 

Amazement  sti-ikes  the  crowd :  while  many  turn. 

Their  eyes  away  in  sorrow,  others  burn 

With  scorn,  invoking  a  vindictive  ban 

From  outraged  Nature;  but  the  sense  of  most 

In  abject  sympathy  with  power  is  lost. 

VOL.  IV.  7 


-S  POEMS    OF    TIIIC    niAGINATION. 


XXXIX. 

PAPAL  DOMINION. 

HxLESS  lo  Peter's  Chair  the  viewles".  wind 
]Must  come  and  ask  permission  when  to  blow, 
Wliat  further  empire  would  it  have  ?  for  now 
A  ghostly  Domination,  unconfined 
As  that  by  dreaming  Bards  to  Love  assigned, 
Sits  there  in  sober  truth,  —  to  raise  the  low. 
Perplex  the  wise,  the  strong  to  overthrow ; 
Through  earth  and  heaven  to  bind   and  to  un- 
bind !  — 
Resist,  —  the  thunder  quails   thee! — crouch, — 

rebuff 
Shall  be  tliy  recompense !  from  land  to  land 
Tlie  ancient  thrones  of  Christendom  are  stuff 
For  occupation  of  a  magic  wand, 
And  'tis  the  Pope  that  wields  it :  —  whether  rough 
Or  smooth  his  front,  our  world  is  i.i  his  hand  ! 


PART  II. 


•to  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  TROUBLES  IN  THE  REIGN 
OF  CUAKLES  I. 

I. 

How  soon,  alas  !  did  Man,  created  pure. 
By  Angels  guarded,  deviate  from  the  line 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  99 

Prescribed  to  duty  !  —  woful  forfeiture 
He  made  bj  wilful  breach  of  law  divine. 
With  like  perverseaess  did  the  Church  abiure 
Obedience  to  her  Lord,  and  haste  to  twine, 
'Mid  Heaven-born  flowex's  that  shall  for  ave  endure, 
Weeds  on  whose  front  the  world  had  fixed  her  sign. 
0  Man !  if  with  thy  trials  thus  it  fares , 
If  good  can  smooth  the  way  to  evil  choice 
From  all  rash  censure  be  the  mind  kept  tree  ; 
He  only  judges  right  who  weighs,  compares, 
And,  in  the  sternest  sentence  which  his  voice 
Pronounces,  ne'er  abandons  Charity. 


II. 

From  false  assumption  rose,  and,  fondly  hailed 
By  superstition,  spread  the  Papal  power  ; 
Yet  do  not  deem  the  Autocracy  prevailed 
Thus  only,  even  in  error's  darkest  hour. 
She  daunts,  forth-thundering  from  her  spiritual 

tower, 
Brute  rapine,  or  with  gentle  lure  she  tames. 
Justice  and  Peace  through  her  uphold  their  claims ; 
And  Chastity  finds  many  a  sheltering  bower. 
Realm  there  is  none  that,  if  controlled  or  s^vavd 
By  her  commands,  partakes  not,  in  degree. 
Of  good,  o'er  manners,  arts,  and  arms  ditfused : 
Yes,  to  thy  domination  Roman  See, 
Though  miserably,  oft  monstrously,  abused 
By  blind  ambition,  be  this  ti-ibute  paid. 


100  POIC-AIS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 


HI. 

CISTEKTIAN     MONASTERY. 

'*  Here  Man  more  purely  lives,  less  oft  dothJnU. 
More  promjJtly  rises,  walks  with  stricter  heed. 
More  safely  rests,  dies  happier,  is  freed 
Earlier  from  cleansing  fires,  a?id  gains  withal 
A  brighter  crown."  *  —  On  yon  Cistertian  wall 
That  confident  assurance  may  be  read ; 
And,  to  like  shelter,  from  the  world  have  fled 
Increasing  multitudes.     The  potent  call 
Doubtless  shall  clieat  full  oft  the  heart's  desires ; 
Yet,  while  the  rugged  Age  on  pliant  knee 
Vows  to  rapt  Fancy  humble  fealty, 
A  gentler  life  spreads  round  the  holy  spires ; 
Where'er  they  rise,  the  sylvan  waste  retires, 
And  aery  harvests  crown  the  fertile  lea. 


IV. 

Deplohable  his  lot  who  tills  the  ground. 
His  whole  life  long  tills  it,  with  heartless  toil 
Of  villain-service,  passing  with  tlic  soil 
To  each  new  Miister,  like  a  steer  or  hound. 
Or  like  a  rooted  tree,  or  stone  earth-bound  ; 
But  mark  how  gladly,  through  their  own  domains 
The  Monks  relax  or  break  these  iron  chams ; 

*  See  Note. 


JiCCLESIASTICAL   SONNETS.  101 

While  Mercj,  uttering,  through,  their  voice,  a  sound 
Echoed  in  Heaven,  cries  out,  "  Ye  Chiefs,  abate 
These  legalized  oppressions !     Man,  whose  name 
And  nature  God  disdained  not,  —  Man,  whose  soul 
Christ  died  for,  —  cannot  forfeit  his  high  claim 
To  live  and  move  exempt  from  all  control 
Which  fellow-feeling  doth  not  mitigatt; ! " 


V. 


MONKS  AND   SCHOOLMEN. 

Record  we  too,  with  just  and  faithful  pen, 
That  many  hooded  Cenobites  there  are, 
Who  in  their  private  cells  have  yet  a  care 
Of  public  quiet ;  unambitious  Men, 
Counsellors  for  the  world,  of  piercing  ken  ; 
Whose  fervent  exhortations  from  afar 
Move  Princes  to  their  duty,  peace  or  war ; 
And  ofttimes  in  the  most  forbidding  den 
Of  solitude,  with  love  of  science  strong, 
How  patiently  the  yoke  of  thought  they  bear ! 
How  subtly  glide  its  finest  threads  along ! 
Spirits  that  crowd  the  intellectual  sphere 
With  mazy  boundaries,  as  the  astronomer 
With  orb  and  cycle  girds  the  starry  throng. 


102  rOEMS    OF    THE    lilAGINATIOK. 

VI. 
OTHER  BENEFITS. 

Aj?d,  not  in  vain  embodied  to  the  sight, 
Religion  finds  even  in  the  stern  retreat 
Of  feudal  sway  her  own  appropriate  seat; 
From  the  collegiate  pomps  on  Windsor's  height 
Down  to  the  humbler  altar,  which  the  Kiiight 
And  his  Retainers  of  the  embattled  hall 
Seek  in  domestic  oratory  small, 
For  prayer  in  stillness,  or  the  chanted  rite ; 
Then  chiefly  dear,  when  foes  are  planted  round. 
Who  teach  the  intrepid  guardians  of  the  place  — 
Hourly  exposed  to  death,  with  famine  worn, 
And  suffering  under  many  a  perilous  wound  — 
How  sad  would  be  their  durance,  if  forlorn 
Of  offices  dispensing  heavenly  grace  ! 

VII. 

CONTIXUHD. 

And  what  melodious  sounds  at  times  prevail! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  how  bright  a  gleam 
Pours  on  tlie  surface  of  the  turbid  Stream  ! 
What  heart-felt  fragrance  mingles  with  the  gale 
That  swells  the  bosom  of  our  passing  sail ! 
For  where,  but  on  this  River's  margin,  blow 
Those  flowers  of  chivalry,  to  bind  the  brow 


ECCLESIASTICAL   SONNETS.  103 

Of  hardihood  with  wreaths  that  shall  not  fail?  — 

Fair  Court  of  Edward  !  wonder  of  the  world ! 

I  see  a  matchless  blazonry  unfurled 

Of  wisdom,  magnanimity,  and  love ; 

And  meekness  tempering  honorable  pride ; 

The  lamb  is  couching  by  the  lion's  side, 

And  near  the  flame-eyed  eagle  sits  the  dove. 


VIII. 

CRUSADERS, 

Furl  we  the  sails,  and  pass  with  tardy  oars 
Through  these  bright   regions,  casting   many 

glance 
Upon  the  dream-like  issues,  —  the  romance 
Of  many-colored  life,  that  Fortune  pours 
Round  the  Crusaders,  till  on  distant  shores 
Their  labors  end  ;  or  they  return  to  lie, 
The  vow  performed,  in  cross-legged  effigy, 
Devoutly  stretched  upon  their  chancel  floors. 
Am  I  deceived  ?  or  is  their  requiem  chanted 
By  voices  never  mute,  when  Heaven  unties 
Her  inmost,  softest,  tcnderest  harmonies; 
Requiem  which   Earth  takes  up  with  voice  un- 
daunted. 
When  she  would  tell  how  Brave,  and  Good,  and 

Wise, 
For  their  high  guerdon  not  in  vain  have  panted  ! 


104  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 


IX. 

As  faith  thus  sanctified  the  wan-ior's  crest 
While  from  the  Papal  Unity  there  came, 
What  feebler  means  had  failed  to  give,  one  aim 
Diffused  through  all  the  regions  of  the  West ; 
So  does  her  Unity  its  power  attest 
By  works  of  Art,  that  shed,  on  the  outward  frame 
Of  wox'ship,  glory  and  grace,  which  who  shall  blame 
That  ever  looked  to  heaven  for  final  rest  ? 
Hail,  countless  Temples !  that  so  well  befit 
Your  ministry  ;  that,  as  ye  rise  and  take 
Form,  spirit,  and  character  from  holy  writ. 
Give  to  devotion,  wheresoe'er  awake. 
Pinions  of  high  and  higher  sweep,  and  make 
The  unconverted  soul  with  awe  submit. 


Where  long  and  deeply  hath  been  fixed  the  root 
III  the  blest  soil  of  Gospel  truth,  the  Tree 
(Blighted  or  scathed  though  many  1  (ranches  be, 
Put  forth  to  wither,  many  a  hopeful  shoot) 
Can  never  cease  to  bear  celestial  fruit. 
Witness  the  Church  that  ofttimes,  with  effect 
Dear  to  the  saints,  strives  earnestly  to  eject 
Her  bane,  her  vital  energies  recruit. 
Lamenting,  do  not  hopelessly  repine 
When  such  good  work  is  doomed  to  be  undone, 
T'lc  conquests  lost  tliat  were  so  liardly  won:  — 


ECCLESIASTICAL   SONNETS.  105 

A.11  promises  vouchsafed  by  Heaven  will  shine 
In  light  confirmed  while  years  their  course  shall  run, 
Confirmed  alike  in  px'ogress  and  decline. 


XI. 

TRANSUBSTANTIATION. 

Enough  !  for  see,  with  dim  association 
The  tapers  burn ;  the  odorous  incense  feeds 
A  greedy  flame ;  the  pompous  Mass  proceeds  ; 
The  Priest  bestows  the  appointed  consecration ; 
And,  while  the  Host  is  raised,  its  elevation 
An  awe  and  supernatural  horror  breeds ; 
And  all  the  people  bow  their  heads,  like  reeds 
To  a  soft  breeze,  in  lowly  adoration. 
This  Valdo  brooks  not.     On  the  banks  of  Rrione 
He  taught,  till  persecution  chased  him  thence, 
To  adoi-e  the  Invisible,  and  him  alone. 
Nor  are  his  Followers  loth  to  seek  defence, 
'Mid  woods  and  wilds,  on  Nature's  craggy  throne, 
From  rites  that  trample  upon  soul  and  sense. 


XII. 

THE  VAUDOIS. 

But  whence  came  they  who  for  the  Saviour  Lord 
Have  long  borne  witness  as  the  Scriptures  teach'  — 
A.ges  ere  Valdo  raised  his  voice  to  preach 


106  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

In  Gallic  ears  the  unaJulterate  "Word. 
Their  fugitive  Progenitors  explored 
Subalpine  vales,  in  quest  of  safe  retreats. 
Where  that  pure  Church  survives,  though  summer 

heats 
Open  a  passage  to  the  Romish  sword^ 
Far  as  it  dares  to  follow.     Herbs  self-sown, 
And  fruitage  gathered  from  the  chestnut  wood, 
Nourish  the  sufferers  then ;  and  mists,  that  brood 
O'er  chasms  with  new-fallen  obstacles  bestrewn, 
Protect  them  ;  and  the  eternal  snow  that  daunts 
Aliens,  is  God's  good  winter  for  their  haunts. 


XIII. 

Praised    be    the   Rivers,   from    their    mountain 

springs 
Shouting  to  Freedom,  "Plant  thy  banners  here!" 
To  harassed  Piety,  "  Dismiss  thy  fear. 
And  in  our  caverns  smooth  thy  ruffled  wings!" 
Nor  be  uuthanked  their  final  linserinjjs, — 
Silent,  but  not  to  high-souled  Passion's  ear, — 
'Mid  reedy  fens  wide-spread  and  mai-shes  drear, 
Their  own  creation.     Such  glad  welcominjjs 
As  Po  was  heard  to  give  where  Venice  rose 
Hailed  from  aloft  those  Heirs  of  truth  divine 
Who  nr^ar  liis  fountains  sought  obscure  repose, 
Yet  came  prepared  as  glorious  lights  to  shine, 
Sliould  that  be  needed  for  their  sacred  Charge; 
Blest  Prisoners  they,  whose  spirits  were  at  large 


ECCLESIASTICAL    bONIsETS.  107 


XIV. 

WALDENSES. 

Those  bad  given  earliest  notice,  as  the  lark 

Springs  from  the  ground  the  morn  to  gratulate ; 

Or  rather  rose  the  day  to  antedate, 

By  striking  out  a  solitary  spark, 

When  all  the  world  with   midnight   gloom   was 

dark.  — 
Then  followed  the  "Waldensian  bands,  whom  Hate 
In  vain  endeavors  to  exterminate, 
Whom  Obloquy  pursues  with  hideous  bark  :  * 
But  they  desist  not ;  —  and  the  sacred  fire, 
Rekindled  thus,  from  dens  and  savage  woods 
Moves,  handed  on  with  never-ceasing  care, 
Through  courts,  through  camps, o'er  Umitary  floods ; 
Nor  lacks  this  sea-girt  Isle  a  timely  share 
Of  the  new  Flame,  not  suffered  to  expire. 


XV. 

ARCHBISHOP   CHICHELY  TO  HENRY   V. 

"  What  beast  in  wilderness  or  cultured  field 
The  lively  beauty  of  the  leopard  shows  ? 
What  flower  in  meadow-ground  or  garden  grows 
That  to  the  towering  lily  doth  not  yield  ? 
liet  both  meet  only  on  thy  royal  shield ! 

*  See  Note. 


108  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Go  forth,  2;reat  Kins:!  claim  what  thv  birth  bestows  ; 
Conquer  the  Gallic  lily  which  tiiy  foes 
Dare  to  usurp  ;  — thou  hast  a  sword  to  wield, 
And  Heaven  will  crown  the  right."  —  The  niilred 

Sire 
Thu-  spake,  —  and  lo !  a  Fleet,  for  Gaul  addrest, 
Ploughs  her  bold  course  across  the  wondering  seas; 
For,  sooth  to  say,  ambition,  in  the  breast 
Of  youthful  heroes,  is  no  sullen  fire, 
But  one  that  leaps  to  meet  the  fanning  breeze. 


XVI. 

WARS  OF   YORK  AND    LANCASTER. 

Thus  is  the  storm  abated  bv  the  craft 

Of  a  shrewd  Counsellor,  eager  to  protect 

The   Church,  whose   power  hath   recently  been 

checked, 
Wliose  monstrous  riches  threatened.     So  the  shaft 
Of  victory  mounts  high,  and  blood  is  quaffed 
In  fields  that  rival  Cressy  and  Poictiers,  — 
Pride  to  be  washed  away  by  bitter  tears! 
For  deep  as  liell  itself,  the  avenging  draught 
Of  civil  slaughter.     Yet,  while  temporal  power 
Is  by  these  shocks  exhausted,  spiritual  truth 
Maintains  the  else  endangei-ed  gift  of  life  ; 
Proceeds  from  infancy  to  lusty  youth  ; 
And,  under  cover  of  this  woful  strife, 
Gathers  unblighted  strength  from  hour  to  hour. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  109 


xyn. 

WICLIFFE. 

Once  more  the  Church  is  seized  with  sudden  fear. 
And  at  her  call  is  "Wicliffe  disinhumed : 
Yea,  his  dry  bones  to  ashes  are  consumed 
And  flung  into  the  brook  that  travels  near ; 
Forthwith,  that  ancient  Voice  which  Streams  can 

hear 
Thus  speaks  (that  Voice  which  walks  upon  the  wind, 
Though  seldom  heard  by  busy  human  kind) : 
"  As  thou  these  ashes,  little  Brook  !  wilt  bear 
Into  the  Avon,  Avon  to  the  tide 
Of  Severn,  Severn  to  the  narrow  seas. 
Into  main  Ocean  they,  this  deed  accurst 
An  emblem  yields  to  friends  and  enemies 
How  the  bold  Teacher's  Doctrine,  sanctified 
By  truth,  shall  spread,  throughout  the  world  dis- 
persed." 

XVIII. 

COKRUPTIONS  OF   THE   HIGHEK  CLERGT. 

"  Woe  to  you.  Prelates  !  rioting  in  ease 
And  cumbrous  wealth,  —  the  shame  of  your  estate 
You,  on  whose  progress  dazzling  trains  await 
Of  pompous  horses  ;  whom  vain  titles  please  ; 
Who  will  be  served  by  others  on  their  knees, 
Yet  will  yourselves  to  God  no  service  pay  ; 


110  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Pastors  who  neither  take  nor  point  the  way 
To  Heaven  ;  for,  either  lost  in  vanities 
Ye  have  no  skill  to  teach,  or  if  ye  know 

And  speak  the  word "  Alas  !  of  fearful  things 

'T  is  the  most  fearful  when  the  people's  eye 
Abuse  hath  cleared  from  vaiji  imaginings  ; 
And  taught  the  general  voice  to  prophesy 
Of  Justice  armed,  and  Pride  to  be  laid  low. 


XIX. 
ABUSE  OF  StOXASTIC  POWER. 

And  what  is  Penance  with  her  knotted  thong  ; 

Mortification  with  the  shirt  of  hair, 

Wan  cheek,  and  knees  indurated  with  prayer, 

Vigils,  and  fastings  rigorous  as  long; 

If  cloistered  Avarice  scrujjle  not  to  wrong 

The  pious,  humble,  useful  Secular, 

And  rob  the  people  of  his  daily  care. 

Scorning  that  world  whose  blindness  makes  her 

strong  ? 
Inversion  strange !  that,  unto  One  who  lives 
For  self,  and  struggles  with  himself  alone, 
Tlie  amplest  share  of  heavenly  favor  gives; 
Tliat  to  a  Monk  allots,  both  in  the  esteora 
Of  God  and  man,  place  higher  tlian  to  him 
Who  on  the  good  of  others  builds  his  own  I 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  Ill 


XX. 

MONASTIC  VOLUPTUOUSNESS. 

Yet  more,  —  round  many  a  Convent's  blazing  fire 
Unhallowed  threads  of  revelry  are  spun  ; 
There  Venus  sits  disguised  like  a  Nun,  — 
While  Bacchus,  clothed  in  semblance  of  a  Friar, 
Pours  out  his  choicest  bevera2;e  hio;h  and  higrher 
Sparkling,  until  it  cannot  choose  but  run 
Over  the  bowl,  whose  silver  lip  hath  won 
An  instant  kiss  of  masterful  desire, 
To  stay  the  precious  waste.     Through  every  brain 
The  domination  of  the  sprightly  juice 
Spreads  high  conceits  to  madding  Fancy  dear. 
Till  the  arched  roof,  with  resolute  abuse 
Of  its  grave  echoes,  swells  a  choral  strain, 
Whose  votive   burden  is,  —  "  Our   kingdom  's 
HERE ! " 

XXI. 

DISSOLUTION  OF  THE   MONASTERIES. 

Threats  come  which  no  submission  may  assuage, 
No  sacrifice  avert,  no  power  dispute  ; 
The  tapers  shall  be  quenched,  the  belfries  mute, 
And,  'mid  their  choirs  unroofed  by  selfish  rage, 
The  warbling  wren  shall  find  a  leafy  cage  ; 
The  gadding  bramble  hang  her  purple  fruit ; 
And  the  green  lizard  and  the  gilded  newt 


112  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

Lead  unmolested  lives,  and  die  of  age. 

The  owl  of  evening  and  the  woodland  fox 

For  their  abode  the  shrines  of  Waltham  choose ; 

Proud  Glastonbury  can  no  more  refuse 

To  stoop  her  head  before  these  desperate  shocks,  - 

She  whose  high  pomp  displaced,  as  story  tells, 

Arimathean  Joseph's  wattled  cells. 


XXII. 

THE  SAME   SUBJECT. 

The  lovely  Nun  (submissive,  but  more  meek 

Through  saintly  habit  than  from  effort  due 

To  unrelenting  mandates  that  pursue 

With  equal  wrath  the  steps  of  strong  and  weak 

Goes  forth,  —  unveiling  timidly  a  cheek 

Suffused  with  blushes  of  celestial  hue, 

While  through  the  Convent's  gate  to  open  view 

Softly  she  glides,  another  home  to  seek. 

Not  Iris,  issuing  from  her  cloudy  shrine, 

An  Apparition  more  divinely  bright ! 

Not  more  attractive  to  the  dazzled  sight 

Those  watery  glories,  on  the  stormy  brine 

Poured  forth,  while  summer  suns  at  distance  shine, 

A.B.d  the  green  vales  lie  hushed  in  sober  light ! 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNKTS.  113 


XXIII. 

CONTINUED. 


Yet  many  a  Novice  of  the  cloistral  shade, 

And  many  chained  by  vows,  with  eager  glee 

The  warrant  hail,  exulting  to  be  free  ; 

Like  ships  before  whose  keels,  full  long  embayed 

In  polar  ice,  propitious  winds  have  made 

Unlooked-for  outlet  to  an  open  sea. 

Their  liquid  world,  for  bold  discovery. 

In  all  her  quarters  temptingly  displayed ! 

Hope  guides  the  young ;  but  when  the  old  must 

pass 
The  threshoW,  whither  shallthey  turn  to  find 
The  hospitality,  the  alms  (alas  ! 
Alms  may  be  needed)  which  that  House  bestowed  ? 
Can  they,  in  faith  and  worship,  train  the  mind 
To  keep  this  new  and  questionable  road  ? 

XXIV. 

SAINTS. 

Ye,  too,  must  fly  before  a  chasing  hand, 

Angels  and  Saints,  in  every  hamlet  mourned  ! 

Ah  !  if  the  old  idolatry  be  spurned, 

Let  not  your  radiant  Shapes  desert  the  Land : 

Her  adoration  was  not  your  demand. 

The  fond  h'^art  proffered  it,  —  the  servile  heart  5 

And  therefore  are  ye  sumnjoned  to  depart, 

VOL.     IV.  8 


llrt  POEMS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 

• 

Michael,  and  thou,  St.  George,  whose  flaming  brand 

The  Dragon  quelled ;  and  valiant  Margaret 

Whose  rival  sword  a  like  Opponent  slew  : 

And  rapt  Cecilia,  seraph-haunted  Queen 

Of"  harmony  ;  and  weeping  INIagdalene, 

Who  in  the  penitential  desert  met 

Gales  sweet  as  those  that  over  Eden  blew  ! 


XXV. 

THE   VIRGIN. 

Mother  !  whose  virgin  bosom  was  uncrost 
With  the  least  shade  of  thought  to  sin  allied  ; 
Woman  !  above  all  women  glorified, 
Our  tainted  nature's  solitary  boast ; 
Purer  than  foam  on  central  ocean  tost ; 
Brighter  than  eastern  skies  at  daybreak  strewn 
With  fancied  roses,  than  the  unblemished  moon 
Before  her  wane  begins  on  heaven's  blue  coast ; 
Tiiy  Image  falls  to  earth.     Yet  some,  I  ween. 
Not  unforgiven  the  suppliant  knee  might  bend, 
As  to  a  visible  Power,  in  which  did  l)lend 
All  that  was  mixed  and  reconciled  in  Thee 
Of  mother's  love  with  maiden  purity. 
Of  high  with  low,  celestial  with  terrene  ! 

XXVI. 

APOLOGY. 

Not  utterly   unworthy  to  endure 
Was  the  supremacy  of  crafty  Rome  ; 


ECCLESIASTICAL      SONNETS.  H^ 

Age  after  age  to  the  arch  of  Christendom 
Aerial  keystone  haughtily  secure  ; 
Supremacy  from  Heaven  transmitted  pure, 
As  many  hold  ;  and,  therefore,  to  the  tomb 
Pass,  some    through   fire,  —  and  by  the  scaffold 

some,  — 
Like  saintly  Fisher,  and  unbending  More. 
"  Lightly  for  both  the  bosom's  lord  did  sit 
Upon  his  throne "  ;  unsoftened,  undismayed 
By  aught  that  mingled  with  the  tragic  scene 
Of  pity  or  fear ;  and  More's  gay  genius  played 
With  the  inoffensive  sword  of  native  wit. 
Than  the  bare  axe  more  luminous  and  keen. 


XXVII. 
ULAGINATIVE    KEGRET8. 

Deep  is  the  lamentation  !     Not  alone 
From  sages  justly  honored  by  mankind  ; 
But  from  the  ghostly  tenants  of  the  wind. 
Demons  and  Spirits,  many  a  dolorous  groan 
Issues  for  that  dominion  overthrown  : 
Proud  Tiber  gi-ieves,  and  far-off  Ganges,  blind 
As  his  own  worshippers  :  and  Nile,  reclined 
Upon  his  monstrous  urn,  the  farewell  moan 
Renews.     Through  every  forest,  cave,  and  den, 
Where  frauds  were  hatched  of  old,  hath  sorrow 

past,  — 
Hangs  o'er  the  Arabian  Prophet's  native  Waste, 


116  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Wliere  once  his  aiiy  helpers  schemed  and  planned 
TVIid  spectral  lakes  bemocking  thirsty  men, 
And  stalking  pillars  built  of  fiery  sand. 


XXVIII. 

REFLECTIONS. 

Grant,  that  by  this  unsparing  hurricane 
Green  leaves  with  yellow  mixed  are  torn  away. 
And  goodly  fruitage  with  the  mother  spray; 
'Twere  madness,  wished  we,  therefore,  to  detain, 
With  hands  stretched  ibrth  in  mollilied  disdain. 
The  "  trumpery  "  that  ascends  in  bare  display,  — 
Bulls,  pardons,  relics,  cowls  black,  white,  and  gray, — 
Upwhirled,  and  flying  o'er  the  ethereal  plain 
Fast  bound  for  Limbo  Lake.     And  yet  not  choice, 
But  habit,  rules  the  unreflecting  herd. 
And  airy  bounds  are  hardest  to  disown  ; 
Hence,  with  the  spiritual  sovereignty  transferred 
Unto  itself,  the  Crown  assumes  a  voice 
Of  reckless  mastery,  hitherto  unknown. 


XXIX. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE   BIBLE. 

But,  to  outweigh  all  harm,  the  sacred  Book, 
In  dusty  sequestration  wrapt  too  long, 
Assumes  the  accents  of  our  native  tongue  ; 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  Ill 

A  nd  he  who  guides  the  plough,  or  wields  Ihe  crook, 
With  understanding  spirit  now  may  look 
Upon  her  records,  listen  to  her  song, 
And  sift  her  laws,  —  much  wondering  that   the 


wrong. 


Which  Faith  has  suffered,  Heaven  could  calmly 

brook. 
Transcendent  Boon  !  noblest  that  earthly  king 
Ever  bestowed  to  equalize  and  bless 
Under  the  weight  of  mortal  wretchedness  ! 
But  passions  spread  like  plagues,  and  thousands  wild 
With  bigotry  shall  tread  the  Offering 
Beneath  their  feet,  detested  and  defiled. 


XXX. 

THE  POINT  AT  ISSUE. 

For  what  contend  the  wise  ?  —  for  nothing  less 

Than  that  the  Soul,  freed  from  the  bonds  of  Sense, 

And  to  her  God  restored  by  evidence 

Of  things  not  seen,  drawn  forth  from  their  recess, 

Root  there,  and  not  in  forms,  her  holiness  ;  — 

For  Faith,  which  to  the  Patriarchs  did  dispense 

Sure  guidance,  ere  a  ceremonial  fence 

Was  needful  round  men  thirsting  to  transgress  ;  — ■ 

For  Faith,  more  perfect  still,  with  which  the  Lord 

Of  all,  himself  a  Spirit,  in  the  youth 

Of  Christian  aspiration,  deigned  to  fill 

The  temples  of  their  hearts  who,  with  hib  ^vor'l 


118  POEMS    01"    THE    ni AGINATION. 

Informed,  were  resolute  to  do  bis  will, 
And  worship  hina  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

XXXI. 

EDWAKD   VI. 

"  Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  Touth  " ;  —  so  felt 
Time-honored  Chaucer,  speaking  through  that  Laj 
By  which  the  Pj-ioress  beguiled  the  way, 
And  many  a  Pilgrim's  rugged  heart  did  melt. 
Hadst  thou,  loved  Bard  !  whose  spirit  often  dwell 
In  the  clear  land  of  vision,  but  foreseen 
King,  child,  and  seraph  blended  in  the  mien 
Of  pious  Edward  kneeling  as  he  knelt 
In  meek  and  simple  infancy,  what  joy 
For  universal  Christendom  had  thrilled 
Thy  heart !  what  hopes  inspired  thy  genius,  skilled 
(O  great  Precursor,  genuine  morning  Star !) 
Tlie  lucid  shafts  of  I'eason  to  employ. 
Piercing  the  Papal  darkness  from  afar ! 


XXXII. 

ETJWARD   aiONINO  THE  WARRANT   FOK  THE   EXECUTION    Ol' 
JOAN  OF   KENT. 

The  tears  of  man  in  various  measures  gush 
From  various  sources  ;  gently  overflow 
From  blissful  transport  some, —  from  clefts  of  wo«; 
Some  with  ungovernable  impulse  rush  ; 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  119 

A.ncl  some,  coeval  with  the  earliest  blush 

Of  infaat  passion,  scarcely  dare  to  show 

Their  pearly  lustre,  —  coming  but  to  go  ; 

And  some  break  forth  when  others'  sorrows  crush 

The  sympathizing  heart.     Nor  these,  nor  yet 

The  noblest  drops  to  admiration  known. 

To  gratitude,  to  injuries  forgiven, 

Claim  Heaven's  regard  like  waters  that  have  wet 

The  innocent  eyes  of  youthful  Monarchs,  driven 

To  pen  the  mandates  nature  doth  disown. 

XXXIII. 
REVIVAL    OF    POPERT. 

The  saintly  Youth  has  ceased  to  rule,  discrowned 

By  unrelenting  Death.     0  People  keen 

For  change,  to  whom  the  new  looks  always  green  ! 

Rejoicing  did  they  cast  upon  the  ground 

Their  Gods  of  wood  and  stone  ;  and,  at  the  sound 

Of  counter-proclamation,  now  are  seen 

(Proud  triumph  is  it  for  a  sullen  Queen  !) 

Lifting  them  up,  the  worship  to  confound 

Of  the  Most  High.     Again  do  they  invoke 

The  Creatui'e,  to  the  Creature  glory  give  ; 

Again  with  frankincense  the  altars  smoke 

Like  those  ihe  Heathen  served  ;  and  mass  is  sung ; 

tVnd  prayer,  man's  rational  prerogative, 

Runs  through  blind  channels  of  an  unknown  tongue 


120  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 


xxxrv. 

liATIMER   AND    RIDLEY. 

How  fast  the  Marian  cleatli-list  is  unrolled  ! 

See  Latimer  and  Ridley  in  the  might 

Of  Faith  stand  coupled  for  a  common  flight ! 

One  (like  those  prophets  whom  God  sent  of  ohl) 

Transfigured,*  from  this  kindling  hath  foretold 

A  torch  of  inextinguishable  light ; 

The  other  gains  a  confidence  as  bold; 

And  thus  they  foil  their  enemy's  despite. 

The  penal  instruments,  the  shows  of  crime, 

Are  glorified  while  this  once-mitred  pair 

Of  saintly  Friends  the  "  murderer's  chain  partake, 

Corded,  and  burning  at  the  social  stake  " : 

Earth  never  witnessed  object  more  sublime 

In  constancy,  in  fellowship  more  fair  ! 


XXXV. 

CKANMER. 

Outstretching  flame-ward  his  upbraided  hand, 
(O  God  of  mercy,  may  no  earthly  Seat 
Of  judgment  such  presumptuous  doom  repeat!) 
Amid  the  shuddering  throng  doth  Craumer  stand, 
Firm  as  the  stake  to  which  with  iron  band 
Flis  frame  is  tied  ;  firm  from  the  naked  feet 
To  the  bare  head.     The  victory  is  complete ; 

*  See  Note. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  121 

The  shrouded  Body  to  the  Soul's  command 
Answers  with  more  than  Indian  fortitude, 
Through  all  her  nerves  with  finer  sense  endued, 
Till  breath  departs  in  blissful  aspiration  : 
Then,  'mid  the  ghastly  ruins  of  the  fire. 
Behold  the  unalterable  heart  entire, 
Emblem  of  faith  untouched,   miraculous  attesta- 
tion !  * 


XXXVI. 
OEKERAL    VIKW   OF    THE    TKOUBLES   OF  THE    REFOKMATION. 

Aid,  glorious  Martyrs,  from  your  fields  of  light, 
Our  mortal  ken  !     Inspire  a  perfect  trust 
(While  we  look  round)  that  Heaven's  decrees  are 

just : 
Which  few  can  hold  committed  to  a  fight 
That  shows,  even  on  its  better  side,  the  might 
Of  proud  Self-will,  Rapacity,  sind  Lust, 
'Mid  clouds  enveloped  of  polemic  dust, 
Which  showers  of  blood  seem  rather  to  incite 
Than  to  allay.     Anathemas  are  hurled 
From  both  sides ;  veteran  thunders  (the  brute  test 
Of  truth)  are  met  by  fulrainations  new, — 
Tartarean  flags  are  caught  at,  and  unfurled,  — 
Friends  strike  at  friends,  —  the  flying  shall  pur- 
sue, — 
And  Victory  sickens,  ignoiant  where  to  rest ! 

•  For  the  belief  in  this  fact,  see  the  contemporary  Historians. 


IT2  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXXVII. 

ENGLISH   REFORMERS  IN  EXILE. 

Scattering,  like  birds  escaped  the  fowler's  net, 
Some  seek  with  timely  flight  a  foreign  strand ; 
Most  happy,  i-eassembled  in  a  land 
By  dauntless  Luther  freed,  could  they  forget 
Their  Country's  woes.    But  scarcely  have  they  met, 
Partners  in  faith,  and  brothers  in  distress, 
Free  to  pour  forth  their  common  thankfulness, 
Ere  hope  declines  :  —  their  union  is  beset 
With  speculative  notions  rashly  sown, 
Whence    thickly-sprouting    growth    of  poisonous 

weeds ; 
Their  forms  are  broken   staves ;  their  passions, 

steeds 
That  master  them.     How  enviably  blest 
Is  lie  who  can,  by  help  of  grace,  enthrone 
The  peace  of  God  within  his  single  breast ! 

XXXVIII. 
ELIZABETH. 

Hail,  Virgin  Queen  !  o'er  many  an  envious  bar 
Triumphant,  snatched  from  many  a  treacherous 

wile  ! 
All  hail,  sage  Liidy,  whom  a  grateful  Isle 
Hath  blest,  respiring  from  that  dismal  war 
Stilled  by  thy  voice !     But  quickly  from  afar 


ECCLESIASTICAL   SONNETS.  123 

Defiance  breathes  with  more  malignant  aim  ; 
And  alien  storms  with  homebred  ferments  chuin 
Portentous  fellowship.     Her  silver  car, 
By  sleepless  prudence  ruled,  glides  slowly  on  ; 
Unhurt  by  violence,  from  menaced  taint 
Emerging  pure,  and  seemingly  more  bright: 
Ah  !  wherefore  yields  it  to  a  foul  constraint 
Black  as  the  clouds  its  beams  dispersed,  while  shone. 
By  men  and  angels  blest,  the  glorious  light  ? 

XXXIX. 

EMINENT  REFORMERS. 

Methinks  that  I  could  trip  o'er  heaviest  soil, 
Light  as  a  buoyant  bark  from  wave  to  wave, 
Were  mine  the  trusty  staff  that  Jewel  gave 
To  youthful  Hooker,  in  familiar  style 
The  gift  exalting,  and  with  playful  smile :  * 
For  thus  equipped,  and  bearing  on  his  head 
The  Donor's  farewell  blessing,  can  he  dread 
Tempest,  or  length  of  way,  or  weight  of  toil  ?  — 
More  sweet  than  odors  caught  by  him  who  sails 
Near  spicy  shores  of  Ai-aby  the  blest, 
A  thousand  times  more  exquisitely  sweet. 
The  freight  of  holy  feeling  which  we  meet, 
In  thoughtful  moments,  wafted  by  the  gales 
From  fields  where  good  men   walk,  or    bowers 
wherein  they  rest. 

*  See  Note. 


124  rOEilS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XL. 

THE  SAME. 

Holt  and  heavenly  Spirits  as  they  are, 

Spotless  in  life,  and  eloquent  as  wise, 

With  what  entire  affection  do  they  prize 

Their  Church  reformed!  laboring  with  earnest  car« 

To  baffle  all  that  may  her  strength  impair  ; 

That  Clmrch,  the  unperverted  Gospel's  seat ; 

In  their  afflictions,  a  divine  retreat ; 

Source    of    their    liveliest   hope,    and   tenderest 

prayer !  — 
The  truth  exploring  with  an  equal  mind, 
In  doctrine  and  communion  they  have  sought 
Firmly  between  the  two  extremes  to  steer ; 
But  theirs  the  wise  man's  ordinary  lot, 
To  trace  right  courses  for  the  stubborn  blind, 
And  prophesy  to  ears  that  will  not  hear. 

XLI. 

niSTKACnONS. 

Mkn,  who  have  ceased  to  reverence,  soon  defy 
Tlieir  forefathers;  lo  !  sects  are  formed,  and  split 
"With  morbid  restlessness  ;  —  the  ecstatic  tit 
Sjjreads  wide  ;  though  special  mysteries  multiply, 
The  Saints  must  govern,  is  their  common  cry ; 
And  so  they  labor,  deeming  Holy  "Writ 
Disgraced  I)y  aught  that  seems  content  to  sit 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  125 

Beneath  the  roof  of  settled  Modesty. 

The  Romanist  exults  ;  fresh  hope  he  draws 

From  the  confusion,  craftily  incites 

The  overweening,  pei'sonates  the  mad, 

To  heap  disgust  upon  the  worthier  Cause : 

Totters  the  Throne ;  the  new-born  Church  is  sad, 

For  every  wave  against  her  peace  unites. 


XLII. 
GUNPOWDER  PLOT. 

Fear  hath  a  hundred  eyes  that  all  agree 

To  plague  her  beating  heart ;  and  there  is  one 

(Nor  idlest  that!)  which  holds  communion 

With  things  that  were  not,  yet  were  meant  to  be. 

Aghast  within  its  gloomy  cavity 

That  eye  (which  sees  as  if  fulfilled  and  done 

Crimes  that  might  stop  the  motion  of  the  sun) 

Beholds  the  horrible  catastrophe 

Of  an  assembled  Senate  unredeemed 

From  subterraneous  Treason's  darkling  power  • 

INIerciless  act  of  sorrow  infinite  ! 

Worse  than  the  product  of  that  dismal  night, 

When,  gushing  copious  as  a  thunder-shower, 

The  blood  of  Huaruenots  through  Paris  streamed. 


126  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 


XLIII. 

ILLUSTRATION. 

THE  JUNG-FR^VU   AND   THE  FALL  OF   THE   RHINE  NEAK 
SCHAFFILVUSEN. 

'Ike  Virgin-Mountain,*  wearing  like  a  Queen 

A  brilliant  ci'own  of  everlasting  snow, 

Sheds  ruin  from  her  sides  ;  and  men  below 

Wonder  that  aught  of  aspect  so  serene 

Can  link  with  desolation.     Smooth  and  green, 

And  seeming,  at  a  little  distance,  slow. 

The  waters  of  the  Rhine  ;  but  on  they  go, 

Fretting  and  whitening,  keener  and  more  keen  ; 

Till  madness  seizes  on  the  whole  wide  Flood, 

Turned  to  a  fearful  Thing  whose  nostrils  breatlie 

Blasts  of  tempestuous  smoke,  —  wherewith  he  triea 

To  hide  himself,  but  only  magnifies ; 

And  doth  in  more  conspicuous  torment  writhe, 

Deafening  the  region  in  his  ireful  mood. 


XLIV. 
TROUBLES   OF   CHARLES  THE   FIRST. 

Even  such  the  contrast  that,  where'er  we  move. 
To  the  mind's  eye  Religion  doth  present ; 
Now  with  her  own  deep  cpiietness  conl(!nt ; 
Tiien,  like  the  mountain,  tliundering  Irom  above 
4.gainsf  the  ancient  pine-trees  of  the  grove 

*  The  Jung-frau. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  T^7 

And  the  Land's  humblest  comforts.    Now  her  mood 
Recalls  the  transformation  of  the  flood, 
Whose  rage  the  gentle  skies  in  vain  reprove, 
Earth  cannot  check.     O  terrible  excess 
Of  headstrong  will !     Can  this  be  Piety  ? 
No,  —  some  fierce  Maniac  hath  usurped  her  name  ; 
And  scour2:es  Encjland  strua;u;ling  to  be  free : 
Her  peace  desti'oyed  !  her  hopes  a  wilderness! 
Her  blessings  cursed,  —  her  glory  turned  to  shame ! 

XLV. 

Prejudged  by  foes  determined  not  to  spare. 
An  old,  weak  Man  for  vengeance  thrown  aside. 
Laud,  "  in  the  painful  art  of  dying  "  tried, 
(Like  a  poor  bii-d  entangled  in  a  snare, 
Whose  heart  still  flutters,  though  his  wings  forbear 
To  stir  in  useless  struggle,)  hath  relied 
On  hope  that  conscious  innocence  supplied. 
And  in  his  prison  breathes  celestial  air. 
Why  tarries  then  thy  chariot  ?     Wherefore  stay, 
0  Death!  the  ensanguined  yet  triumphant  wheels 
Which  thou  prepar'st,  fuU  often,  to  convey 
(What  time  a  state  with  madding  faction  reels) 
The  Saint  or  Patriot  to  the  world  that  heals 
All  wounds,  all  perturbations  doth  allay  ? 

*  See  Note. 


\?.b  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 

XLVI. 

AFFLICTIONS  OF   ENGLAND. 

Harp  !  couldst  thou  venture,  on  thy  boldest  string, 
The  faintest  note  to  echo  which  the  blast 
Cauglit  from  the  hand  of  Moses  as  it  passed 
O'er  Sinai's  top,  or  from  the  Shepherd-king, 
Early  awake,  by  Siloa's  brook,  to  sing 
Of"  dread  Jehovah ;  then  should  wood  and  waste 
Hear  also  of  that  name,  and  mercy  cast 
Off  to  the  mountains,  like  a  covering 
Of  which  the  Lord  was  weary.     Weep,  0  weep ! 
Weep  with  the  good,  beholding  King  and  Priest 
Despised  by  that  stern  God  to  whom  they  raise 
Their  suppliant  hands :  but  holy  is  the  feast 
He  keepeth  ;  like  the  firmament  his  ways  ; 
His  statutes  like  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 


PART  m. 

PBOM    THE    RESTORATION    TO    THE    PRESENT 

TIMES. 

I. 

I  SAW  the  ligure  of  a  lovely  Maid 
Seated  alone  beneath  a  darksome  tree, 
Wiiose  fondly-overhanging  canopy 
Set  ofl'  I  er  brightness  with  a  pleasing  shade. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  129 

No  Spirit  was  she  ;  that  my  heart  betrayed, 
For  she  was  one  I  loved  exceedingly ; 
But  while  I  gazed  in  tender  reverie, 
(Or  was  it  sleep  that  with  my  Fancy  played  ?) 
The  bright  corporeal  presence,  —  form  and  face, — 
Remaining  still  distinct,  grew  thin  and  rare, 
Like  sunny  mist ;  —  at  length  the  golden  hair, 
Shape,  limbs,  and  heavenly  features,  keeping  pace 
Each  with  the  other  in  a  lingering  race 
Of  dissolution,  melted  into  air. 

II. 

PATRIOTIC   SYMPATHIES. 

Last  night,  without  a  voice,  that  Vision  spake 

Fear  to  my  Soul,  and  sadnes^  which  might  seem 

Wholly  dissevered  from  our  present  theme ; 

Yet,  my  beloved  Country  !  I  partake 

Of  kindred  agitations  for  thy  sake  ; 

Thou,  too,  dost  visit  oft  my  midnight  dream  ; 

Thy  glory  meets  me  with  the  earliest  beam 

Of  light,  which  tells  that  morning  is  awake. 

If  aught  impair  thy  beauty,  or  destroy, 

Or  but  forebode  destruction,  I  deplore 

With  filial  love  the  sad  vicissitude ; 

If  thou  hast  fallen,  and  righteous  Heaven  restore 

The  prostrate,  then  my  spring-time  is  renewed, 

And  sorrow  bartered  for  exceeding  joy. 

VOL.    IV.  0 


130  POEMS    OF    THE    IJIAGINATION. 


III. 

CHARLES  THE   SECOND. 

Who  comes,  — with  rapture  greeted,  and  caress'd 
With  frantic  love,  —  his  kingdom  to  regain? 
Him  Virtue's  Nurse,  Adversity,  in  vain 
Received,  and  fostered  in  her  iron  breast : 
For  all  she  taught  of  hardiest  and  of  best, 
Or  would  have  taught,  by  discipline  of  pain 
And  long  privation,  now  dissolves  amain, 
Or  is  remembered  only  to  give  zest 
To  wantonness.  —  Away,  Circean  revels  ! 
But  for  wliat  gain  ?  if  England  soon  must  sink 
Into  a  gulf  which  all  distinction  levels,  — 
That  bigotry  may  swallow  the  good  name. 
And,  with  that  draught,  the  life-blood  :    misery, 

shame, 
By  Poets  loathed;  from  which  Historians  shrink! 

IV. 

L.ATITUDINARIANISM. 

Yet  Truth  is  keenly  sought  for,  and  the  wind 
Charged  with  rich  words  poured  out  in  thought's 

defence ; 
Whether  the  Church  inspire  tliat  eloquence, 
Or  a  Platonic  Piety  confined 
To  the  sole  temple  of  the  inwnrd  mind  ; 
And  one  there  is  who  builds  immortal  lays, 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  131 

'J'hough  doomed  to  tread  in  solitary  ways, 

Darkness  before  and  danger's  voice  behind ; 

Yet  not  alone,  nor  helpless  to  repel 

Sad  thoughts  ;  for  from  above  the  starry  sphere 

Come  secrets,  whispered  nightly  to  his  ear ; 

And  the  pure  spirit  of  celestial  light 

Shines  through  his  soul,  —  "that  he  may  see  and 

tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  moi'tal  sight." 

V. 

WALTON'S   BOOK   OF  LIVES. 

There  are  no  colors  in  the  fairest  sky 
So  fair  as  these.     The  feather,  whence  the  pen 
Was  shaped  that  ti-aced  the  lives  of  these  good  men, 
Di-opped  from  an  Angel's  wing.     With  moistened 

eye 
We  read  of  faith  and  purest  charity 
In  Statesman,  Priest,  and  humble  Citizen  : 
0  could  we  copy  their  mild  virtues,  then 
What  joy  to  live,  what  blessedness  to  die  ! 
Methinks  their  very  names  shine  still  and  bright ; 
Apart,  —  like  glowworms  on  a  summer  night ; 
Or  lonely  tapers  when  from  far  they  fling 
A  guiding  ray  ;  or  seen,  like  stars  on  high, 
Satellites  burning  in  a  lucid  ring 
Around  meek  Walton's  heavenly  memory. 


132  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION, 


VI. 

CLERICAL   INTEGRITY. 

Nor  shall  the  eternal  roll  of  praise  reject 
Tliose  Unconforming  ;  whom  one  rigoi'ous  day 
Drives  from  their  Cures,  a  voluntary  prey 
To  poverty,  and  grief,  and  disrespect, 
And  some  to  want,  —  as  if  by  tempests  wrecked 
On  a  wild  coast ;  how  destitute  !  did  they 
Feel  not  that  Conscience  never  can  betray, 
That  peace  of  mind  is  Virtue's  sure  effect? 
Their  altars  they  forego,  their  homes  they  quit. 
Fields  which  they  love,  and  paths  they  daily  trod 
And  cast  the  future  upon  Providence ; 
As  men  the  dictates  of  whose  inward  sense 
Outweighs  the  world ;  whom  self-deceiving  wit 
Lures  not  from  what  they  deem  the  cause  of  Goil. 

vir. 

PERSECUTION   OF  THE   SCOTTISH    COVKNANTKRS. 

When  Alpine  vales  threw  forth  a  suppliant  cry. 

The  majef^ty  of  England  interpo?;ed 

And  the  sword  stopped  ;  the  bleeding  wounds  wero 

closed ; 
And  Faith  preserved  her  ancient  purity. 
How  little  boots  that  precedent  of  good, 
Scorned  or  forgotten,  thou  canst  testify, 
Vr\  England's  shame, O  Sister  Realm!  from  wood, 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  133 

Mountain,  and  moor,  and  crowded  street,  where  lie 

The  headless  martyrs  of  the  Covenant, 

Slain  bj  compatriot  Protestants  that  draw 

From  councils  senseless  as  intolerant 

Their  warrant.     Bodies  fall  by  wild  sword-law ; 

But  who  would  force  the  Soul,  tilts  with  a  straw 

Against  a  Champion  cased  in  adamant. 


VIII. 
ACQUITTAL  OF   THE   BISHOPS. 

A  VOICE,  from  long-expecting  thousands  sent, 

Shatters  the  air,  and  troubles  tower  and  spire ; 

For  Justice  hath  absolved  the  innocent, 

And  Tyranny  is  balked  of  her  desire  : 

Up,  down,  the  busy  Thames  —  rapid  as  fire 

Coursing  a  train  of  gunpowder —  it  went, 

And  transport  finds  in  every  street  a  vent, 

Till  the  whole  City  rings  like  one  vast  choir. 

The  Fathers  urge  the  People  to  be  still, 

With  outstretched  hands  and  earnest  speech, — in 

vain! 
Yea,  many,  haply  wont  to  entertain 
Small  reverence  for  the  mitre's  offices, 
And  to  Religion's  self  no  friendly  will, 
A  Prelate's  blessing  ask  on  bended  knees. 


134  POEMS    OF     THF.    IMAGINATION. 


IX. 


WILLIAM   THE  THIIJD. 


Calm  as  an  under-current,  strong  to  draw 

Millions  of  waves  into  itself,  and  run, 

From  sea  to  sea,  impervious  to  the  sun 

And  ploughing  storm,  the  spirit  of  Nassau 

(Swerves  not,  how  blest  if  by  religious  awe 

Swayed,  and  thereby  enabled  to  contend 

With  the  wide  world'^s  commotions)  from  its  end 

Swerves  not,  —  diverted  by  a  casual  law. 

Had  mortal  action  e'er  a  nobler  scope  ? 

The  Hero  comes  to  liberate,  not  defy  ; 

And,  while  he  marches  on  with  steadfast  hope, 

Conqueror  beloved  !  expected  anxiously  ! 

The  vacillating  Bondman  of  the  Pope 

Shrinks  from  the  verdict  of  his  steadfast  eye. 

X. 

OBUGATIOMS  OK    CIVIL  TO    RKLir.IOUS    LIBERTY. 

Ungrateful  Country,  if  thou  e'er  forget 
The  sons  who  for  thy  civil  rights  have  bled  ! 
How,  like  a  Roman,  Sidney  bowed  his  head. 
And  Russcl's  milder  blood  the  scaffold  wet ! 
But  these  had  fallen  for  profitless  regret 
Had  not  thy  holy  Church  her  champions  bred, 
And  claims  from  other  worlds  inspirited 
The  star  of  Liberty  to  rise.     Nor  yet 


KCCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  13.3 

(Grave  this  within  thy  heart!)  if  spiritual  things 
Be  lost,  through  apathy,  or  scorn,  or  fear, 
Shalt  thou  thy  humbler  franchises  support. 
However  hardly  won  or  justly  dear  : 
What  came  fi'om  heaven  to  heaven  by  nature  <.  lings, 
And  if  dissevered  thence,  its  course  is  shoi't. 


XI. 

SACHEVEREL. 

A  SUDDEN  conflict  rises  from  the  swell 
Of  a  proud  slavery  met  by  tenets  strained 
In  Liberty's  behalf     Fears,  true  or  feigned. 
Spread  thi-ough  all  ranks  ;  and  lo  !  the  Sentinel 
Who  loudest  rang  his  pulpit  'larum  bell 
Stands  at  the  Bar,  absolved  by  female  eyes 
Minslinsf  their  glances  with  grave  flatteries 
Lavished  on  Mm,  that  England  may  rebel 
Against  her  ancient  virtue.     High  and  Low, 
Watch-words  of  Party,  on  all  tongues  are  rife  ; 
As  if  a  Church,  thougli  sprung  from  heaven,  must 

owe 
To  opposite  and  fierce  extremes  her  life,  — 
Not  to  the  golden  mean,  and  quiet  flow 
Of  truths  that  soften  hatred,  temper  strife. 


XII. 

Down  a  swift  stream,  thus  far,  a  bold  design 
Have  we  pursued,  with  livelier  stir  of  heart 


Ion  POKMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATIOX. 

Than  his  who  sees,  borne  foi*wai"d  by  the  lilune, 
The  living  landscapes  greet  him,  and  depart ; 
Sees  spires  fast  sinking,  up  again  to  start ! 
And  strives  the  towers  to  number,  that  recline 
(.)'er  the  dark  steeps,  or  on  the  horizon  line 
Striding  with  shattered  crests  his  eye  athwart. 
So  have  we  hurried  on  WMth  troubled  pleasure  : 
Henceforth,  as  on  the  bosom  of  a  stream 
That  slackens,  and  spreads  wide  a  watery  gleam, 
We.  nothing  loth  a  lingering  course  to  measure, 
May  gather  up  our  thoughts,  and  mark  at  leisure 
How  widely  spread  the  interests  of  our  theme. 


XIII. 
ASPECTS   OF    CHRISTIANITY    IN   AMERICA- 
I.  THE  PILGRIM   FATHERS. 

Well  worthy  to  be  magnilied  are  they 
Who,  with  sad  hearts,  of  friends  and  country  took 
A  last  farewell,  their  loved  abodes  forsook, 
And  hallowed  ground  in  which  their  fathers  lay ; 
Then  to  the  new-found  World  explored  their  way, 
That  so  a  Church,  unforced,  uncalled  to  brook 
Ritual  restraints,  within  some  sheltering  nook 
Her  Lord  might  worship  and  his  word  obey 
In  freedom.     Men  they  were  who  could  not  bend  ; 
Blest  Pilgrims,  surely,  as  they  took  for  guide 
A  will  by  sovereign  Conscience  sanctified  ; 
Mlcst  while  their  Spirits  from  the  woods  ascend 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  137 

Alonor  ii  Galaxv  that  knows  no  end, 
But  in  Plis  glory  who  for  sinners  died. 

XIV. 

II.    CONTINUED. 

From  Rite  and  Ordinance  abused  they  fled 
To  Wilds  where  both  were  utterly  unknown  ; 
But  not  to  them  had  Providence  foreshown 
What  benefits  are  missed,  what  evils  bred. 
In  worship  neither  raised  nor  limited 
Save  by  Self-will.     Lo  !  from  that  distant  shore, 
For  Rite  and  Ordinance,  Piety  is  led 
Back  to  the  Land  those  Pilgrims  left  of  yoi'e, 
Led  by  her  own  free  choice.     So  Truth  and  Love 
By  Conscience  governed  do  their  steps  retrace. — 
Fathers  !  your  Virtues,  such  the  power  of  grace, 
Their  spirit,  in  your  Children,  thus  approve. 
Transcendent  over  time,  unbound  by  place, 
Concord  and  Charity  in  circles  move. 

XV. 

III.    CONCLUDEl>. —  A5IERICAN  EPISCOPACY. 

Patriots  informed  with  Apostolic  light 
Were  they,  who,  when  their  country  had  been  freed, 
Bowing  with  reverence  to  the  ancient  creed, 
Fixed  on  the  frame  of  England's  Churcli  their 
sight, 


138  POK-MS    OF    THE    i:\IAGIXATION. 

A.nd  strove  in  filial  love  to  reunite 

What  force  had  severed.     Thence  they   fetched 

the  seed 
Of  Christian  unity,  and  won  a  meed 
Of  praise    from    Heaven.     To  Thee,   0  saintly 

White, 
Patriarch  of  a  wide-spreading  family, 
Remotest  lands  and  unborn  times  shall  turn, 
Whether  they  would  restore  or  build,  —  to  thee, 
As  one  who  rightly  taught  how  zeal  should  burn, 
As  one  who  drew  from  out  Faith's  holiest  urn 
The  purest  stream  of  patient  Energy. 

XVI. 

Bishops  and  Priests,  blessed  are  ye,  if  deep, 
(As  yours  above  all  offices  is  high,) 
Deep  in  your  hearts  the  sense  of  duty  lie ; 
Charged  as  ye  are  by  Christ  to  feed  and  keep 
From  wolves  your  portion  of  his  chosen  sheep : 
Laboring  as  ever  in  your  Master's  sight. 
Making  your  hardest  task  your  best  delight, 
What  perfect  glory  ye  in  Heaven  shall  reap!  — 
But,  in  the  solemn  Office  which  ye  sought 
xVnd  undertook  prcmonished,  if  unsound 
Your  practice  prove,  faithless  though  but  in  thought, 
Bishops  and  Priests,  think  what  a  gulf  pi-ofound 
A-waits  you  then,  if  they  were  rightly  taugl)t 
\Tho  framed  the  Ordinance  by  your  lives  disowned  1 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  139 


XVII. 

PLACES  OF  WORSHIP. 

A.8  star  that  shines  dependent  upon  star 

Is  to  the  sky  while  we  look  up  in  love  ; 

As  to  the  deep  fair  ships,  which  though  they  move 

Seem  fixed,  to  eyes  that  watch  them  from  afar ; 

As  to  the  sandy  desert  fountains  are, 

With  palm-groves  shaded  at  wide  intervals, 

Whose  fruit  around  the  sun-burnt  Native  falls 

Of  roving  tired  or  desultory  war,  — 

Such  to  this  British  Isle  her  Christian  Fanes, 

Each  linked  to  each  for  kindred  services  ; 

Her  Spires,  her    Steeple-towers    with    glittering 

vanes 
Far-kenned,  her  Chapels  lurking  among  trees, 
Where  a  few  villagers  on  bended  knees 
Find  solace  which  a  busy  world  disdains. 

XVIII. 
PASTORAL   CHARACTER. 

A  GENIAL  hearth,  a  hospitable  board, 

And  a  refined  rusticity,  belong 

To  the  neat  mansion,  where,  his  flock  among, 

The  learned  Pastor  dwells,  their  watchful  Lord. 

Though  meek  and  patient  as  a  sheathed  sword  ; 

rhough  pride's  least  lurking  thought  appear  a  wrong 


140  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

To  human  kind  ;  though  peace  be  on  his  tongue 
Gentleness  in  his  heart,  —  can  earth  afford 
Such  genuine  state,  preeminence  so  free, 
As  when,  arrayed  in  Christ's  authority, 
He  from  the  pulpit  lifts  his  awful  hand  ; 
Conjures,  implores,  and  labors  all  he  can 
For  resubjecting  to  divine  command 
The  stubborn  spirit  of  rebellious  man  ? 

XIX. 

THE   LITURGY. 

Yes,  if  the  intensities  of  hope  and  fear 
Attract  us  still,  and  passionate  exercise 
Of  lofty  thoughts,  the  way  before  us  lies 
Distinct  with  signs,  through  which  in  sei  career, 
As  through  a  zodiac,  moves  the  ritual  year 
Of  England's  Church  ;  stupendous  mysteries  ! 
Which  whoso  travels  in  her  bosom  eyes, 
As  he  approaches  them,  with  solemn  cheer. 
Upon  that  circle  traced  from  sacred  story 
We  only  dare  to  cast  a  transient  glance, 
Trusting  in  hope  that  others  may  advance 
With  mind  intent  upon  the  King  of  Glory, 
From  his  mild  advent  till  his  countenance 
.^hall  dissipate  the  seas  and  mountains  hoary. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  Ml 


XX. 

BAPTISM. 

Deak  be  the  Church,  that,  watching  o'er  the  needs 
Of  Infancy,  provides  a  timely  shower, 
Whose  virtue  changes  to  a  Christian  Flower 
A  Growth  from  sinful  Nature's  bed  of  weeds !  — 
Fitliest  beneath  the  saci'ed  roof  proceeds 
The  ministration  ;  while  parental  Love 
Looks  on,  and  Grafce  descendeth  from  above 
As  the  high  service  pledges  now,  now  pleads. 
There,  should  vain  thoughts  outspread  their  wings 

and  fly 
To  meet  the  coming  hours  of  festal  mirth. 
The  tombs  —  which  hear  and  answer  that  brief  cry, 
The  Infant's  notice  of  his  second  birth  — 
Recall  the  wandering  Soul  to  sympathy 
With  ^\  hat  man  hopes  from  Heaven,  yet  fears  from 

Earth. 


XXI. 

SPONSORS. 

Father  !  to  God  himself  w^e  cannot  give 
A  holier  name  !  then  lightly  do  not  bear 
Both  names  conjoined,  but  of  thy  spiritual  care 
Be  duly  mindful :  still  more  sensitive 
Do  thou,  in  truth  a  second  IMother,  strive 


142  rOEMS    OF   THE    niAGINATIOX. 

Against  disheartening  custom,  that  by  thee 
Watched,  and  with  love  and  pious  industry 
Tended  at  need,  the  adopted  Phmt  ma}-  tiirive 
For  everlasting  bloom.     Benign  and  pure 
This  Ordinance,  whether  loss  it  would  supply, 
Prevent  omission,  help  deficiency, 
Or  seek  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure. 
Shame  if  the  consecrated  Vow  be  found 
An  idle  form,  the  Word  an  empty  sound ! 


XXII. 

CATECHIZING. 

From  Little  down  to  Least,  in  due  degree. 
Around  the  Pastor,  each  in  new-wrouglu  vest. 
Each  with  a  vernal  posy  at  his  breast. 
We  stood,  a  trembling,  earnest  Company  ! 
With  low,  soft  murmur,  like  a  distant  bee, 
Some  spake,  by  thought-perplexing  fears  betrayed; 
And  some  a  bold,  unerring  answer  made  : 
IIow  fluttered  then  thy  anxious  lieart  for  mc 
Beloved  Mother  !     Thou  whose  happy  ham) 
Had  bound  the  flowers  I  wore,  with  faithlul  tie  : 
Sweet  flowers  I  at  whose  inaiidihle  conimaixl 
Her  countenance,  pliantom-like,  dotli  reappear; 
0  lost  too  early  for  the  frequent  tear. 
And  ill  i-equited  by  this  heartfelt  sigh  I 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  H3 


XXIII. 

CONFIRMATION. 


The  Young-ones  gathered  in  from  hill  and  dale. 

With  holiday  delight  on  every  brow  : 

'T  is  past  away  ;  far  other  thoughts  prevail ; 

For  they  are  taking  the  baptismal  Vow 

Upon  their  conscious  selves  ;  their  own  lips  speak 

The  solemn  promise.     Strongest  sinews  fail, 

And  many  a  blooming,  many  a  lovely  cheek, 

Under  the  holy  fear  of  God  turns  pale  ; 

While  on  each  head  his  lawn-robed  servant  lays 

An  apostolic  hand,  and  with  prayer  seals 

The  Covenant.     The  Omnipotent  will  raise 

Their  feeble  Souls ;  and  bear  with  his  regi'ets, 

Who,  looking  round  the  fair  assemblage,  feels 

That  ere  the  Sun  goes  down  their  childhood  sets. 


XXIV. 

CONFIRMATION,   CONTINUED. 

I  SAW  a  Mother's  eye  intensely  bent 
Upon  a  Maiden  trembling  as  she  knelt ; 
In  and  for  whom  the  pious  Mother  felt 
Things  that  we  judge  of  by  a  light  too  faint : 
Tell,  if  ye  may,  some  star-crowned  Muse,  or  Saint ! 
Tell  what  rushed  in,  from  what  she  was  relieved, 
Then,  when  her  Child  the  hallowing  touch  received, 
And  such  vibration  throuij^h  the  Mother  went 
That  tears  burst  forth  amain.     Did  gleams  appear  ? 


144  rOEMS    OF    THK    IMAGINATION. 

Opened  a  vision  of  that  blissful  place 

Where  dwells  a  Sister-child  ?  And  was  power  given 

Part  of  her  lost  One's  glory  back  to  trace 

liven  to  this  Rite ?     For  thus  she  knelt,  and.  eie 

The  summex'-leaf  had  faded,  passed  to  Heaven. 

XXV. 

SACKAMENT. 

Br  chain  yet  stronger  must  the  Soul  be  tied : 
One  duty  more,  last  stage  of  this  ascent, 
Brings  to  thy  food,  mysterious  Sacrament! 
The  Offspring,  haply  at  the  Parent's  side ; 
Rut  not  till  they,  with  all  that  do  abide 
In  Heaven,  have  lifted  up  their  hearts  to  laud 
And  magnify  the  glorious  name  of  God, 
Fountain  of  Grace,  wliose  Son  for  sinners  died. 
Ye,  who  have  duly  weighed  the  summons,  pause 
No  longer ;  ye,  whom  to  the  saving  rite 
The  Altar  calls ;  come  early  under  laws 
That  can  secure  for  you  a  path  of  light 
Through  gloomiest  shade  ;  put  on   (nor  dread  i.s 

weight) 
Armor  divine,  and  contjuer  in  your  CJiuse ! 


XXVI. 

THE   MARRIAGE   CKREMON". 

The  Vested  Priest  before  the  Altar  stands; 
A.l)proach,  come  gladly,  ye  prepared,  in  sight 


ECCLESIASTICAL   SONNETS.  145 

Of  God  and  cliosen  friends,  your  troth  to  plight 

With  the  symbolic  ring,  and  willing  hands 

Solemnly  joined.     Now  sanctify  the  bands, 

O  Father  !  —  to  the  Espoused  thy  blessing  give, 

That  mutually  assisted  they  may  live 

Obedient,  as  here  taught,  to  thy  commands. 

So  prays  the  Church,  to  consecrate  a  Vow 

"  The  which  would  endless  matrimony  make  "  ; 

Union  that  shadows  forth  and  doth  partake 

A  mystery  potent  human  love  to  endow 

With  heaverdy,  each  more  prized  for  the  other'8 

sake ; 
Weep  not,  meek  Bride !  uplift  thy  timid  brow. 


XXVII. 

THANKSGIVING   AFTER   CHILDBIRTH. 

Woman  !  the  Power  who  left  his  throne  on  high. 
And  deiffned  to  wear  the  robe  of  flesh  we  wear, 
The  Power  that  through  the  sti-aits  of  Infancy 
Did  pass  dependent  on  maternal  care, 
His  own  humanity  with  thee  will  share. 
Pleased  with  tlie  thanks  that  in  his  People's  (fye 
Thou  oiFerest  up  for  safe  Delivery 
From   Childbirth's  perilous  throes.     And  should 

the  Heir 
Of  thy  fond  hopes  hereafter  walk  inclined 
To  courses  fit  to  make  a  mother  rue 
That  ever  he  was  born,  a  glance  of  mind 

VOL.    IV.  10 


146  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Cast  upon  this  observance  may  renew 
A  better  will ;  and,  in  the  imagined  view 
Of  thee  thus  kneeling,  safety  he  may  find 


XXVIII. 

VISITATION  OF   THE   SICK. 

The  Sabbath  bells  renew  the  inviting  peal ; 
Glad  music !  yet  there  be  that,  worn  with  pain 
And  sickness,  listen  where  they  long  have  lain, 
In  sadness  listen.     With  maternal  zeal 
Inspired,  the  Church  sends  ministers  to  kneel 
Beside  the  afflicted ;  to  sustain  with  prayer, 
And  soothe  the  heart  confession  hath  laid  bare, — 
That  pardon,  from  God's  throne,  may  set  its  seal 
On  a  true  Penitent.     When  breath  departs 
From  one  disburdened  so,  so  comforted. 
His  Spirit  Angels  greet ;  and  ours  be  hope 
That,  if  the  Sufferer  rise  from  his  sick-bed, 
Hence  he  will  gain  a  firmer  mind,  to  cope 
With  a  bad  world,  and  foil  the  Tempter's  arts. 


XXIX. 

THE   COMMINATION    SKUVICE. 

Shun  not  this  rite,  neglected,  yea,  abhorred, 
By  some  of  unreflecting  mind,  as  callinff 
Man  to  curse   man    (thought   monstrous    and  i\[ 
palling). 


KCCLKSIASTICAL    SOXXETS.  117 

Gro  thou  and  hear  the  threatenings  of  the  Lord; 
Listening  within  his  Temple,  see  his  sword 
Unsheathed  in  Avrath  to  strike  the  offender's  head, 
Thy  own,  if  sorrow  for  thy  sin  be  dead. 
Guilt  unrepented,  pardon  unimplored. 
Two  aspects  bears  Truth  needful  for  salvation ; 
Who  knows  not  that'? — yet  would  this  delicate  age 
Look  only  on  the  Gospel's  brighter  page  : 
Let  light  and  dark  duly  our  thoughts  employ ; 
So  shall  the  fearful  words  of  Commination 
Yield  timely  fruit  of  peace  and  love  and  joy. 


XXX. 

FORMS   OF   PRAYER  AT   SEA. 

To  kneeling  Worshippers  no  earthly  floor 
Gives  holier  invitation  than  the  deck 
Of  a  storm-shattered  Vessel  saved  from  Wreck 
(When  all  that  Man  could  do  availed  no  more) 
By  Him  who  raised  the  Tempest  and  restrains  : 
Happy  the  crew  who  this  have  felt,  and  pour 
Forth  for  His  mercy,  as  the  Church  ordains. 
Solemn  thanksgiving.     Nor  will  they  implore 
In  vain,  who,  for  a  rightful  cause,  give  breath, 
Tc  words  the  Church  prescribes,  aiding  the  lip 
For  the  heart's  sake,  ere  ship  with  hostile  ship 
ICncounters,  armed  for  work  of  pain  and  death. 
Suppliants  !  the  God  to  whom  your  cause  ye  trust 
Will  listen,  and  ye  know  that  He  is  just. 


148  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXXI. 

FUNERAL  SERVICE. 

P'rom  the  Baptismal  hour,  through  weal  and  woe, 
The  Church  extends  her  care  to  thought  and  deed ; 
Nor  quits  the  Body  when  the  Soul  is  freed, 
The  mortal  weight  cast  off  to  be  laid  low. 
Blest  Rite  for  him  who  hears  in  faith,  "  I  know 
That  my  Redeemer  liveth,"  —  hears  each  word 
That  follows,  striking  on  some  kindred  chord 
Deep  in  the  thankful  heart;  —  yet  tears  will  flow. 
Man  is  as  grass  that  springeth  up  at  morn. 
Grows  green,  and  is  cut  down  and  withereth 
Ere  nightfall,  —  truth  that  well  may  claim  a  sigh, 
Its  natural  echo  ;  but  hope  comes  reborn 
At  Jesu's  bidding.     "We  rejoice,  "  0  Death, 
Where  is  thy  Sting?  —  O  Grave,  where  is  thj 
Victory  ?  " 

XXXII. 

RUUAL   CEREMONY.* 

Cl-OSING  the  sacred  Book  whicli  long  has  fed 

Our  meditations,  give  we  to  a  day 

Of  annual  joy  one  tributary  lay  ; 

This  day,  when,  forth  by  rustic  music  led, 

The  village  Children,  while  the  sky  is  red 

*  See  Note. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNKI  S  149 

With  evening  lights,  adv'ance  in  long  array 
Through  the  still  churchyard,  each  with  garland 

That,  carried  sceptre-like,  o'ertops  the  head 

Of  the  proud  Bearer.     To  the  wide  church-door. 

Charged  Avith  these  offerings  which  their  fathers 

bore 
For  decoration  in  the  Papal  time. 
The  innocent  Procession  softly  moves:  — 
The  spirit  of  Laud  is  pleased  in  heaven's  pure  clime, 
And  Hooker's  voice  the  spectacle  approves  ! 


XXXIII. 

REGRETS. 

Would  thaiour  scrupulous  Sires  had  dared  to  leave 
Less  scanty  measures  of  those  graceful  rites 
And  usages,  whose  due  return  invites 
A  stir  of  mind  too  natural  to  deceive  ; 
Giving  to  Memory  help  when  she  would  weave 
A  crown  for  Hope  !  —  I  dread  the  boasted  lights 
That  all  too  often  are  but  fiery  blights, 
Killing  the  bud  o'er  which  in  vain  we  grieve. 
Go,  seek,  when  Chi'istmas  snows  discomfort  bring. 
The  counter  Spirit  found  in  some  gay  church 
Green  with  fresh  holly,  every  pew  a  perch 
In  which  the  linnet  or  the  thrush  might  sing, 
Meri-y  and  loud  and  safe  from  prying  search, 
Strains  offered  only  to  the  genial  Spring. 


150  POliJIS    OF    THE    I3IAGINATI0N. 


XXXIT. 

MUTABILITY. 

From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climu, 

And  sink  from  high  to  low,  along  a  scale 

Of  awful  notes,  whose  concord  shall  not  fail ; 

A  musical  but  melancholy  chime, 

Which  they  can  hear  who  meddle  not  with  crime. 

Nor  avarice,  nor  over-anxious  care. 

Truth  fails  not ;  but  her  outward  forms  that  bear 

The  longest  date  do  melt  like  frosty  rime. 

That  in  the  morning  whitened  hill  and  plain 

And  is  no  more  ;  drop  like  the  tower  sublime 

Of  yesterday,  which  royally  did  wear 

His  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even  sustain 

Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent  air, 

Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time. 


XXXV. 

OLD   ABBEYS. 

Monastic  Domes  !  following  my  downward  wav, 
Untouched  by  due  i*egret  I  marked  your  fall  ! 
Now,  ruin,  beauty,  ancient  stillness,  all 
Dispose  to  judgments  temperate  as  we  lay 
On  our  past  selves  in  life's  declining  day  : 
For  as,  by  discipline  of  Time  made  wise. 
We  learn  to  tolerate  the  infirmities 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  1^1 

And  faults  of  others,  gently  as  lie  may, 

So  with  our  own  the  mild  Instructor  deals. 

Teachinor  us  to  foro;et  them  or  forgive. 

Perversely  curious,  then,  for  hidden  ill 

Why  should  we  break  Time's  charitable  seals? 

Once  ye  were  holy,  ye  are  holy  still ; 

Your  spirit  freely  let  me  drink,  and  live ! 


XXXVI. 

EMIGRANT   FRENCH   CLERGY. 

Even  while  I  speak,  the  sacred  roofs  of  Franc  3 
Are  shattered  into  dust ;  and  self-exiled 
From  altars  threatened,  levelled,  or  defiled, 
Wander  the  Ministers  of  God,  as  chance 
Opens  a  way  for  life,  or  consonance 
Of  faith  invites.     More  welcome  to  no  land 
The  fugitives  than  to  the  British  strand, 
Where  priest  and  layman  with  the  vigilance 
Of  true  compassion  greet  them.     Creed  and  test 
Vanish  before  the  unreserved  embrace 
Of  cathoUc  humanity  :  — distrest 
They  came,  —  and,  while  the  moral  tempest  roars 
Throughout  the  Country  they  have  left,  our  shores 
Give  to  their  Faith  a  fearless  restit  g-place. 


152  POEMS    OF    TUE   IMAGINATION. 


XXXVII. 

CONG  R  ATULATION. 


Thus  all  things  lead  to  Charity,  secured 
By  THEM  who  blessed  the  soft  and  happy  gale 
That  landward  urged  the  great  Deliverer's  sail, 
Till  in  the  sunny  bay  his  fleet  was  moored ! 
Propitious  hour  !  had  we,  like  them,  endured 
Sore  stress  of  apprehension,*  with  a  mind 
Sickened  by  injui'ies,  dreading  worse  designed, 
From  month  to  month  trembling  and  unassured, 
How  had  we  then  rejoiced !     But  we  have  felt. 
As  a  loved  substance,  their  futurity  : 
Good,  which  they  dared  not  hope  for,  we  have  seen ; 
A  State  whose  generous  will  through  earth  is  dealt ; 
A  State,  which,  balancing  herself  between 
License  and  slavish  order,  dares  be  free. 


XXXVIIl. 

NEW    CHURCHES. 

But  liberty,  and  triumplis  on  the  Main, 
And  laurelled  armies,  not  to  be  withstood,  — 
What  serve  they  ?  if,  on  transitory  good 
Intent,  and  sedulous  of  abject  gain. 
The  State  (ah,  surely  not  preserved  in  vain  !) 

*  Sec  Note. 


ECCLESIASTICAL   SONNETS.  153 

Forbear  to  shape  due  channels  which  the  Flood 
Of  sacred  truth  may  enter,  till  it  brood 
O'er  the  wide  i-ealm,  as  o'er  the  Egyptian  plain 
The  all-sustaining  Nile.     No  more,  —  the  ticae 
Is  conscious  of  her  want ;  through  E  ngland's  bounds, 
In  rival  haste,  the  wished-for  Temples  rise  1 
I  hear  their  Sabbath  bells'  harmonious  chime 
Float  on  the  breeze,  —  the  heavenliest  of  all  sounds 
That  vale  or  hill  prolongs  or  multiplies  ! 


XXXIX. 

CHURCH  TO  BE  EKKCTED. 

Be  this  the  chosen  site ;  the  virgin  sod. 
Moistened  fi-om  age  to  age  by  dewy  eve, 
Shall  disajjpeai",  and  grateful  earth  receive 
The  corner-stone  from  hands  that  build  to  God. 
Yon  reverend  hawthorns,  hardened  to  the  rod 
Of  winter  storms,  yet  budding  cheerfully, 
Those  forest  oaks  of  Druid  memory. 
Shall  long  survive,  to  shelter  the  Abode 
Of  genuine  Faith.     Where,  haply,  'mid  this  band 
Of  daisies,  shepherds  sat  of  yore  and  wove 
May-garlands,  there  let  the  holy  altar  stand 
For  kneeling  adoration  ;  —  while,  above. 
Broods,  visibly  portrayed,  the  mystic  Dove, 
That  shall  protect  from  blasphemy  the  Land. 


154  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XL. 

CONTINUED. 

Mine  ear  has  rung,  my  spirit  sunk  subdued. 
Sharing  the  strong  emotion  of  the  crowd, 
When  each  pale  brow  to  dread  hosannas  bowed 
While  clouds  of  incense  mounting  veiled  the  ro(»d, 
That  glimmered  like  a  pine-tree  dimly  viewed 
Through  Alpine  vapors.     Sucli  appalling  rite 
Our  Church  prepares  not,  trusting  to  the  might 
Of  simple  truth  with  grace  divine  imbued ; 
Yet  will  we  not  conceal  the  precious  Cross, 
Like  men  ashamed :  the  Sun  with  his  first  smile 
Shall  greet  that  symbol  crowning  the  low  Pile  : 
And  the  fi-esh  air  of  incense-breathing  morn 
Shall  wooingly  embrace  it ;  and  green  moss 
Creep  round  its  arms  through  centuries  unborn. 


XLI. 

NEW  CHURCHYARD. 

The  encircling  ground,  in  native  turf  arrayed, 

Ts  now  by  solemn  consecration  given 

To  social  interests,  and  to  favoring  Heaven, 

\nd  where  the  rugged  colts  their  gambols  played, 

And  wild  deer  bounded  through  the  forest  glade, 

[Jnchecked  as  when  by  merry  Outlaw  driven, 

Shall  hymns  of  praise  resound  at  morn  and  fvcn. 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  155 

And  soon,  full  soon,  the  lonely  Sexton's  spade 
Shall  wound  the  tender  sod.     Encincture  small, 
But  infinite  its  grasp  of  weal  and  woe  ! 
Hopes,  fears,  in  never-ending  ebb  and  flow  ;  — 
The  spousal  trembling,  and  the  "dust  to  dust," 
The  prayers,  the  contrite  struggle,  and  the  trust 
That  to  the  Almighty  Father  looks  through  all. 


XLII. 

CATHEDRALS,   ETC. 

Open  your  gates,  ye  everlasting  Piles  ! 

Types  of  the  spiritual  Church  which  God  hath 

reared ; 
Not  loth  we  quit  the  newly-hallowed  sward 
And  humble  altar,  'mid  your  sumptuous  aisles 
To  kneel,  or  thrid  your  inti-icate  defiles, 
Or  down  the  nave  to  pace  in  motion  slow  ; 
Watching,  with  upward  eye,  the  tall  tower  grow 
And  mount,  at  every  step,  with  living  wiles 
Instinct,  —  to  rouse  the  heart  and  lead  the  will 
By  a  bright  ladder  to  the  world  above. 
Open  your  gates,  ye  Monuments  of  love 
Divine  !  thou,  Lincoln,  on  thy  sovei-eign  hill ! 
Thou,   stately  York !   and  ye,  whose   splendors 

cheer 
Isis  and  Cam,  to  patient  Science  dear  I 


150  rOEJIS    OF    THE    Ii^AGl^'ATION. 

XLIII. 

IN3IDK  OF   king's    COLLEGE    CHAPEL,   CAMBRIDGB. 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense, 

With  ill-matched  aims  the  Architect  who  planned — 

Albeit  laboring  for  a  scanty  band 

Of  white-robed  Scholars  only  —  this  immense 

And  glorious  Work  of  tine  intelliarence  ! 

Give  all  thou  canst ;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 

Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more  ; 

So  deemed  the  man  who  fashioned  for  the  sense 

These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 

Self-poised,  and  scooped  into  ten  thousand  cells. 

Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 

Lingering,  and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die  ; 

Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 

That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

XLIV. 

THE   SAME. 

What  awful  perspective  !  while  from  our  sight 
With  gradual  stealth  the  lateral  windows  liide 
Their    Portraitures,   their   stone-U(»ik    glimmers, 

dyed 
Tn  the  soft  checkerings  of  a  sleepy  light. 
Martyr,  or  King,  or  sainted  Eremite, 
Whoe'er  ye  be,  that  thus,  yourselves  unseen, 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  157 

Imbue  your  prison-bars  with  solemn  sheen, 
Shine  on.  until  ye  fade  with  coming  Night !  — 
But,  from  the  arms  of  silence,  —  list !  O  list!  — 
The  music  bursteth  into  second  life  ; 
The  notes  luxuriate,  every  stone  is  kissed 
By  sound,  or  ghost  of  sound,  in  mazy  strife  ; 
Heart-thrilling  strains,  that  cast,  before  the  eye 
Of  the  devout,  a  veil  of  ecstasy  ! 


XLV. 

CO>-TI>UED. 

They  dreamt  not  of  a  perishable  home 
Who  thus  could  build.     Be  mine,  in  hours  of  fear 
Or  grovelling  thought,  to  seek  a  refuge  here ; 
Or  through  the  aisles  of  Westminster  to  roam  ; 
Where  bubbles  burst,  and  folly's  dancing  foam 
Melts,  if  it  cross  the  threshold ;  where  the  wreath 
Of  awe-struck  wisdom  droops  :  or  let  my  path 
Lead  to  that  younger  Pile,  whose  sky-like  dome 
Hath  typified  by  reach  of  daring  art 
Infinity's  embrace  ;  whose  guardian  crest. 
The  silent  Cross,  among  the  stars  shall  spread 
As  now,  when  she  hath  also  seen  her  breast 
Filled  with  mementos,  satiate  with  its  part 
Of  grateful  England's  overflowing  Dead. 


158  POEMS    OF   THE    IMAGINATION. 


XLVI. 

EJACULATION. 


Glory  to  God  !  and  to  the  Power  wno  came 
In  filial  duty,  clothed  with  love  divine, 
That  made  his  human  tabernacle  shine 
Like  Ocean  burning  with  purpureal  fiame  ; 
Or  like  the  Alpine  Mount,  that  takes  its  name 
From  roseate  hues,  far  kenned  at  morn  and  even. 
In  hours  of  peace,  or  when  the  storm  is  driven 
Along  the  nether  region's  rugged  frame  I 
Earth  prompts,  —  Heaven  urges  ;  let  us  seek  the 

light, 
Studious  of  that  pure  intercourse  begun 
When  first  our  infant  brows  their  lustre  won  ; 
So,  like  the  Mountain,  may  we  grow  more  bright 
From  unimpeded  commerce  with  the  Sun, 
At  the  approach  of  all-involving  night. 


XLVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Why  sleeps  the  future,  as  a  snake  enrolled, 
Coil  within  coil,  at  noontide  ?     For  the  Word 
y  ields,  if  with  unpresumptuous  faith  explored, 
Power  at  whose  touch  the  sluggard  shall  unfold 
His  drowsy  rings.     Look  forth  !  —  that   Stream 
behold, 


ECCLESIASTICAL    SONNETS.  159 

That  Stream  upon  whose  bosom  we  have  passed 
Floating  at  ease  while  nations  have  efiaced 
Nations,  and  Death  has  gathered  to  his  fold 
Long  lines  of  mighty  kings, — look  forth,  mj  Soul ! 
(Nor  in  this  vision  be  thou  slow  to  trust :) 
The  living  Waters,  less  and  less  by  guilt 
Stained  and  polluted,  brighten  as  they  roll, 
Till  they  have  reached  the  Eternal  City,  —  built 
For  the  perfected  Spirits  of  the  just  i 


EVENING  VOLUNTARIES. 


Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose 

Day's  grateful  warmth,  though  moist  with  falling 

dews. 
Look  for  the  stars,  you  '11  say  that  there  are  none  ; 
Look  up  a  second  time,  and,  one  by  one, 
You  mark  them  twinkling  out  with  silvery  light, 
And  wonder  how  they  could  elude  the  sight ! 
The  birds,  of  late  so  noisy  in  their  bowers, 
Warbled  awhile  with  faint  and  fainter  powers, 
But  now  are  silent  as  the  dim-seen  flowers: 
Nor  does  the  village  Church-clock's  iron  tone 
The  time's  and  season's  influence  disown  , 
Nine  beats  distinctly  to  each  other  bound, 
In  drowsy  sequence, —  how  unlike  the  sou. id 
That,  in  rough  winter,  oft  inflicts  a  fear 
On  fireside  listeners,  doubting  what  they  hear  I 
The  shepherd,  bent  on  rising  with  the  sun. 
Had  closed  his  door  before  the  day  was  done, 
And  now  with  thankful  heart  to  bed  <loth  creep, 
And  joins  his  little  childnm  in  their  sU^ep. 


EVENING    VOLUNTARIES.  161 

The  bat,  lured  forth  where  trees  the  lane  o'ershafle. 
Flits  and  refiits  along  the  close  arcade  ; 
The  busy  dor-hawk  chases  the  white  moth 
With  burring  note,  which  Industry  and  Sloth 
Might  both  be  pleased  with,  for  it  suits  them  both. 
A  stream  is  heard,  —  I  see  it  not,  but  know 
By  its  soft  music  whence  the  waters  flow : 
Wheels  and  the  tread  of  hoofs  are  heard  no  more , 
One  boat  thei'e  was,  but  it  will  touch  the  shore 
With  the  next  dipping  of  its  slackened  oar  ; 
Faint  sound,  that,  for  the  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Might  give  to  serious  thought  a  moment's  sway, 
As  a  last  token  of  man's  toilsome  day  ! 

1833 


n. 

ON   A    HIGH    PART    OF    THE    COAST    OF    CUMBER- 
LAND. 

Easter  Sunday,  April  7. 

THK  author's   sixty-third   BIRTHDAY. 

The  Sun,  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire. 
Flung  back  from  distant  climes  a  streaming  fire. 
Whose  blaze  is  now  subdued  to  tender  gleams, 
Prelude  of  night's  approach  with  soothing  dreams. 
Look  round  ;  —  of  all  the  clouds  not  one  is  moving  • 
'T  IS  llie  still  hour  of  thinking,  feeling,  loving. 

VOL.  IV.  11 


162  POEMS    OF    TUE    IMAGINATIOX. 

Silent,  and  steadfast  as  the  vaulted  sky_ 
The  boundless  plain  of  water  seems  to  lie  :  — 
Comes  that  low  sound  from  breezes  rustling  o'er 
The  grass-crowned  headland  that  conceals  the  shore  ? 
No  ;  't  is  the  earth-voice  of  the  mighty  sea, 
AVhispering  how  meek  and  gentle  he  can  be  ! 

Thou  Power  supreme  !  who,  arming  to  rebuke 
Offenders,  dost  put  off  the  gracious  look. 
And  clothe  thyself  with  terrors,  like  the  flood 
Of  ocean  roused  into  his  fiercest  mood. 
Whatever  discipline  thy  Will  orgiain 
For  the  brief  course  that  must  for  me  remain, 
Teach  me  with  quick-eared  spirit  to  rejoice 
In  admonitions  of  thy  softest  voice  !  ■ 
Whate'er  the  palh  these  mortal  feet  may  trace, 
Breathe  through  my  soul  the  blessing  of  thy  grjicc, 
Glad,  through  a  perfect  love,  a  faith  sincere 
Drawn  from  the  wisdom  that  begins  with  feai-, 
Glad  to  expand ;  and,  for  a  season,  free 
From  finite  cares,  to  rest  absorbed  in  Thee ! 

Iti33. 


III. 


(by  the  sea-side.) 

The  sun  is  couched,  the  sea-fowl  gone  to  rest. 
A.nd  the  wild  storm  hath  somewhere  found  a  nest ; 


EVENIKG    VOLUNTARIES.  163 

Air  slumbers,  wave  with  wave  no  longer  strives, 
Only  a  heaving  of  the  deep  survives, 
A  telltale  motion  !  soon  will  it  be  laid, 
And  by  the  tide  alone  the  water  swayed. 
Stealthy  withdrawings,  interminglings  mild 
Of  light  with  shade  in  beauty  reconciled,  — 
Such  is  the  prospect  far  as  sight  can  range, 
The  soothing  recompense,  the  welcome  change. 
Where  now  the  ships  that  drove  before  the  blast, 
Threatened  by  angry  breakers  as  they  passed, 
And  by  a  train  of  flying  clouds  bemocked. 
Or,  in  the  hollow  surge,  at  anchor  rocked 
As  on  a  bed  of  death  ?     Some  lodge  in  peace. 
Saved  by  His  care  who  bade  the  tempest  cease  ; 
And  some,  too  heedless  of  past  danger,  court 
Fresh  gales  to  waft  them  to  the  far-off  port ; 
But  near,  or  hanging  sea  and  sky  between. 
Not  one  of  all  those  winged  powers  is  seen, 
Seen  in  her  course,  nor  'mid  this  quiet  heard ; 
Yet  oh !  how  gladly  would  the  air  be  stirred 
By  some  acknowledgment  of  thanks  and  praise, 
Soft  in  its  temper  as  those  vesper  lays 
Sung  to  the  Virgin  while  accordant  oars 
Urge  the  slow  bark  along  Calabrian  shores ; 
A  sea-born  service  through  the  mountains  felt 
Till  into  one  loved  vision  all  things  melt ! 
Or  like  those  hymns  that  soothe  with  graver  sound 
The  gulfy  coast  of  Norway  iron-bound  ; 
And,  from  the  wide  and  open  Baltic,  rise 
W"ith  punctual  care,  Lutherian  harmonies  ! 


164  POEMS    01"    THE    IMAGlXATJOx>. 

Hush,  not  a  voice  is  here !  but  wliy  repine, 
Now  when  the  star  of  eve  comes  forth  to  shine 
On  British  waters  with  that  look  benign  ? 
Ye  mariners,  that  plough  your  onward  way, 
Or  in  the  haven  rest,  or  sheltering  bay. 
May  silent  thanks  at  least  to  God  be  given 
With  a  full  heart ; "  our   thoughts  are   heard  in 
heaven ! " 

1888. 


IV. 


Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 

That  come  but  as  a  curse  to  p^rty-strife  ; 

Not  in  some  hour  when  Pleasure  with  a  sigh 

Of  languor  puts  his  rosy  garland  by  ; 

Not  in  the  breathing-times  of  that  poor  slave 

Who  daily  piles  up  wealth  in  IMammon's  cave  — 

Is  Nature  felt,  or  can  be ;  nor  do  words, 

Wliich  practised  talent  readily  affords, 

Prove  that  her  hand  has  touched  responsive  chords  ; 

Nor  has  her  gentle  beauty  power  to  move 

With  genuine  rapture  and  with  fervent  love 

The  soul  of  Genius,  if  he  dare  to  take 

Ijifo's  rule  from  passion  craved  for  passion's  sake; 

Untaught  that  meekness  is  the  cherished  bent 

Df  all  the  truly  great  and  all  the  innocent. 


EVENING    VOLUNTAKIES.  1G5 

But  who  is  innocent  ?     By  grace  divine, 
Xot  otherwise,  0  Nature !  we  are  thine, 
Through  good  and  evil  thine,  in  just  degree 
Of  rational  and  manly  sympathy. 
To  all  that  Earth  from  pensive  hearts  is  stealing, 
And  Heaven  is  now  to  gladdened  eyes  revealing, 
Add  every  charm  the  Universe  can  show 
Through  every  change  its  aspects  undergo,  — 
Care  may  be  respited,  but  not  repealed  ; 
No  perfect  cure  grows  on  that  bounded  field. 
Vain  is  the  pleasure,  a  false  calm  the  peace, 
If  He,  through  whom  alone  our  conflicts  cease, 
Our  virtuous  hopes  without  relapse  advance, 
Come  not  to  speed  the  Soul's  deliverance ; 
To  the  distempered  Intellect  refuse 
His  gracious  help,  or  give  what  we  abuse. 

1834. 


V. 


(by    the    side    of  RYDAL    MERE.) 

The  linnet's  warble,  sinking  towards  a  close, 
Hints  to  the  thrush  't  is  time  for  their  repose ; 
The  shrill-voiced  thrush  is  heedless,  and  again 
The  monitor  revives  his  own  sweet  strain ; 
l]ut  both  will  soon  be  mastered,  and  the  copse 
Be  left  as  silent  as  the  mountain-tops. 


166  POEMS    OF   THE    I^r AGINATION. 

Et'p  ?ome  commanding  star  dismiss  to  rest 

The  throng  of  rooks,  that  now,  from  twig  oi  .lest, 

(After  a  steady  fliglit  on  home-bound  wings, 

And  a  last  game  of  mazy  hoverings 

Around  their  ancient  grove,)  with  cawing  noise 

Disturb  the  liquid  music's  equipoise. 

O  Nightingale  !     Who  ever  heard  thy  song 
Might  here  be  moved,  till  Fancy  grows  so  strong 
That  listening  sense  is  pardonably  cheated 
Where  wood  or  stream  by  thee  was  never  greeted. 
Surely,  from  fairest  spots  of  favored  lands, 
Were  not  some  gifts  withheld  by  jealous  hands, 
This  hour  of  deepening  darkness  here  would  be 
As  a  fresh  morning  for  new  harmony ; 
And  lays  as  prompt  would  hail  the  dawn  of  Night: 
A  dawn  she  has  both  beautiful  and  bright, 
Wlien  the  East  kindles  with  the  full  moon's  light ; 
Not  like  the  rising  sun's  impatient  glow 
Dazzling  the  mountains,  but  an  overflow 
Of  solemn  splendor,  in  mutation  slow. 

Wanderer  by  spring  with  gradual  progress  led, 
For  sway  profoundly  felt  as  widely  spread ; 
To  king,  to  peasant,  to  rough  sailor,  dear, 
And  to  the  soldier's  trumpet- wearied  ear; 
How  welcame  wouldst  thou  be  to  this  green  Vale 
Fairer  than  Tempe  !     Yet,  sweet  Nightingale  ! 
From  the  warm  breeze  that  bears  thee  on,  alight 
A.t  will,  and  stay  thy  migratory  flight; 


EVENING    VOLUNTARIES.  1  G7 

Build,  at  thy  choice,  or  sing,  by  pool  or  fount, 
Who  shall  complain,  or  call  thee  to  account  ? 
The  wisest,  happiest,  of  our  kind  are  they 
That  ever  walk  content  with  Nature's  way, 
God's  goodness,  —  measuring  bounty  as  it  may; 
For  whom  the  gravest  thought  of  what  they  miss, 
Chastening  the  fulness  of  a  present  bliss, 
Is  with  that  wholesome  office  satisfied. 
While  unrepining  sadness  is  allied 
[n  thankful  bosoms  to  a  modest  pride. 

1834. 


VI. 


Soft  as  a  cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge,  —  the  Mere 
Seems  firm  as  solid  crystal,  breathless,  clear, 
And  motionless ;  and,  to  the  gazer's  eye, 
Deeper  than  ocean,  in  the  immensity 
Of  its  vague  mountains  and  unreal  sky  ! 
But,  from  the  process  in  that  still  retreat, 
Turn  to  minuter  changes  at  our  feet ; 
Observe  how  dewy  Twilight  has  withdrawn 
The  crowd  of  daisies  from  the  shaven  lawn, 
And  has  restored  to  view  its  tender  green, 
That;  while  the  sun  rode  high,  was  lost  beneath 

their  dazzling  sheen. 
—  An  emblem  this  of  what  the  sober  Hour 
Can  do  for  minds  disposed  to  feel  its  power ! 


1 08  rOEMs  OF  Tni-:  ijiagixation*. 

Tlius  oft,  when  we  in  vain  have  wished  away 
The  petty  pleasures  of  the  gairish  day, 
Meek  eve  shuts  up  the  whole  usurping  host, 
(Unbashful  dwarfs  each  glittering  at  his  post,) 
And  leaves  the  disencumbered  spirit  free 
To  reassume  a  staid  simplicity. 

'Tis  well, — but  what  are  helpsof  time  and  place, 
When  wisdom  stands  in  need  of  nature's  grace  ; 
Why  do  good  thoughts,  invoked  or  not,  descend, 
Like  Angels  from  their  bowers,  our  virtues  to  be- 
friend ; 
If  yet  To-morrow,  unbelied,  may  say, 
"  I  come  to  open  out,  for  fresh  display, 
The  elastic  vanities  of  yesterday  "  ? 

1S34. 


VII. 


The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak-crowned  hill, 
And  sky  that  danced  among  those  leaves,  are  still ; 
Rest  smooths  the  way  for  sleep  ;  in  Kcld  and  bower 
Soft  shades  and  dews  have  shed  their  blended  po'^'er 
On  drooping  eyelid  and  the  closing  flower ; 
Sound  is  there  none  at  which  the  faintest  heart 
Might  leap,  the  weakest  nerve  of  superstition  start ; 
Save  where  the  Owlet's  unexpected  scream 
Pierces  the  ethereal  vault ;  ami  ('rnid  the  gleara 


EVENIKG    VOLUNTARIES.  169 

Of  unsubstantial  imagery,  the  dream, 
From  the  hushed  vale's  realities,  transferred 
To  the  still  lake)  the  imaginative  Bird 
Seems,  'mid  inverted  mountains,  not  unheard. 

Grave  Creature!  —  whether,  while  the  moon 
shines  bright 
On  thy  wings  opened  wide  for  smoothest  flight, 
Thou  art  discovered  in  a  roofless  tower. 
Rising  from  what  may  once  have  been  a  lady's 

bower ; 
Or  spied  where  thou  sitt'st  moping  in  thy  mew 
At  the  dim  centre  of  a  churchyard  yew  ; 
Or,  from  a  rifted  crag  or  ivy  tod 
Deep  in  a  forest,  thy  secure  abode, 
Thou  giv'st,  for  pastime's  sake,  by  shriek  or  shout, 
A  puzzling  notice  of  thy  whereabout,  — 
May  the  night  never  come,  nor  day  be  seen. 
When  I  shall  scorn  thy  voice  or  mock  thy  mien  ! 

In  classic  ages  men  perceived  a  soul 

Of  sapience  in  thy  aspect,  heedless  Owl ! 

Tiiee  Athens  reverenced  in  the  studious  grove ; 

And,  near  the  golden  sceptre  grasped  by  Jove, 

His  Eagle's  favorite  perch,  while  round  him  sat 

The  Gods  revolving  the  decrees  of  Fate, 

Thou,  too,  wert  present  at  Minerva's  side  : 

Hark  to  that  second  larum!  —  far  and  wide 

The  elements  have  heard,  and  rock  and  cave  re 

plied. 

1834. 


170  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


vin. 

[This  Impromptu  appeared,  many  years  ago,  anions;  the  An 
thor's  poems,  from  which,  in  sixbsequent  editions,  it  was  ex- 
cluded.   It  is  reprinted,  at  the  request  of  the  Friend  in  whose 
presence  the  lines  were  tlirown  oflf.] 

The  sun  has  long  been  set, 

The  stars  are  out  by  twos  and  threes, 
The  httle  birds  are  piping  yet 

Among  the  bushes  and  trees  ; 
There  's  a  cuckoo,  and  one  or  two  thrushes. 
And  a  far-off  wind  that  rushes, 
And  a  sound  of  water  that  gushes, 
And  the  cuckoo's  sovereign  cry 
Fills  all  the  hollow  of  the  sky. 

Who  would  go  "  parading  " 

In  London,  "  and  masquerading," 

On  such  a  night  of  June, 

Witli  that  beautiful,  soft  half-moon, 

And  all  these  innocent  blisses  ? 

Ou  such  a  night  as  this  is  ! 

1804. 


IX. 


COMPOSED    UPON   AN    EVENING    OF    EXTRAORDI- 
NAKY    SPLENDOR    AND    BEAUTY. 

I. 

Had  this  effulgence  disapppeared 
With  flying  iiaste,  I  miglit  have  sci\t. 


EVENING    VOLUNTARIES.  171 

A.mong  the  speechless  clouds,  a  look 

Df  blank  astonishment ; 

But 't  is  endued  with  power  to  stay 

And  sanctify  one  closing  day, 

That  frail  Mortality  may  see  — 

What  is  ?  —  ah  no,  but  what  ca7i  be ! 

Time  was  when  field  and  watery  cove 

With  modulated  echoes  rang, 

While  choii-s  of  fervent  Angels  sang 

Their  vespers  in  the  grove  ; 

Or,  crowning,  star-hke,  each  some  sovereign  height, 

Wai'bled,  for  heaven  above  and  earth  below, 

Strains  suitable  to  both.  —  Such  holy  rite, 

Methinks,  if  audibly  repeated  now 

From  hill  or  valley,  could  not  move 

Sublimer  transport,  purer  love, 

Than  doth  this  silent  spectacle,  —  the  gleam. 

The  shadow,  and  the  peace  supreme 


,1 


II. 


No  sound  is  uttered,  —  but  a  deep 
And  solemn  hai'mony  pervades 
The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep. 
And  penetrates  the  glades. 
Far-distant  images  draw  nigh. 
Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 
Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues 
Wliate'er  it  strikes  with  gem-like  hues  i 
In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 
^erds  range  along  the  mountain-side 


172  roKMS  01"  Tin:  imagination'. 

And  glistening  antlers  are  descried, 
And  gilded  tlocks  appear. 
Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpureal  Kve  ! 
But  long  as  godlike  wish,  or  hope  divine, 
Informs  my  spii'it,  ne'er  can  I  believe 
That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine  ! 

—  From  worlds  not  quickened  by  the  sun 
A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won  ; 

An  intermingling  of  Heaven's  pomp  is  spread 
On  ground  which  British  shepherds  tread ! 

III. 

And  if  there  be  whom  broken  ties 
Afflict,  or  injuries  assail, 
Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes 
Present  a  glorious  scale. 
Climbing,  suffused  with  sunny  air, 
To  stop  —  no  record  hath  told  where! 
And  tem[)ting  Fancy  to  ascend. 
And  with  immortal  Spirits  blend  ! 

—  Wings  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play  ; 
But,  rooted  here,  I  stand  and  gaze 

On  those  bright  steps  that  heavenward  raise 

Their  [nacticable  way. 

Come  forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look  abroad, 

And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound ! 

And  if  some  ti-aveller,  weary  of  his  road. 

Hath  slept  since  noontide  on  the  grassy  ground, 

Yg  Genii  !  to  his  covert  speed  ; 

And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 


EVENING    VOLUNTARIES.  173 

A^s  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 
Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour  ! 

TV. 

Such  hues  from  their  celestial  Urn 

Were  wont  to  stream  before  mine  eye, 

Where'er  it  wandered  in  the  morn 

Of  blissful  infancy. 

This  glimpse  of  glory,  why  renewed  ? 

Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude  ; 

For,  if  a  vestige  of  those  gleams 

Survived,  't  was  only  in  my  dreams. 

Dread  Power !  whom  peace  and  calmness  serve 

No  less  than  Nature's  threatening  voice, 

If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice. 

From  Thee  if  I  would  swerve, 

0,  let  thy  grace  remind  me  of  the  light 

Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored  ; 

Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking  sight 

Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored  ; 

My  soul,  though  yet  confined  to  earth. 

Rejoices  in  a  second  birth  ! 

—  'T  is  past,  the  visionary  splendor  fades  ; 

And  night  approaches  with  her  shades. 

1818. 

Note.  —  The  multiplication  of  mountain  ridges,  described  at 
the  commencement  of  the  third  Stanza  of  this  Ode  as  a  k^ud 
Df  Jacob's  Ladder  leading  to  Heaven,  is  produced  either  by 
n-atery  vapors  or  sunny  haze ;  —  in  tlie  present  instance,  by 
lie  latter  cause.  Allusions  to  the  Ode  entitled  "  Intimations 
-■f  Immortality  "  pervade  the  last  Stanza  of  the  fore.i^ning 
rop-m. 


174  P0E3IS    OF   THE   lilAGlNATIOX. 


COMPOSED    BY   THE    SEA-SHORE. 

What  mischief  cleaves  to  unsubdued  regret, 

How  fancy  sickens  by  vague  hopes  beset, 

How  baffled  projects  on  the  spirit  prey, 

And  fruitless  wishes  eat  the  heart  away, 

The  Sailor  knows  ;  he  best,  whose  lot  is  cast 

On  the  relentless  sea  that  holds  him  fast 

On  chance  dependent,  and  the  fickle  star 

Of  power,  through  long  and  melancholy  war. 

0,  sad  it  is,  in  sight  of  foreign  shores, 

Daily  to  think  on  old  familiar  doors. 

Hearths  loved  in  childhood,  and  ancestral  floors ; 

Or,  tossed  about  along  a  waste  of  foam. 

To  ruminate  on  that  delightful  home 

Which  with  the  dear  Betrothed  wa^  to  come, 

Or  came  and  was  and  is,  yet  meets  the  eye 

Never  but  in  the  world  of  memory  ; 

Or  in  a  dream  recalled,  whose  smoothest  range 

Is  crossed  by  knowledge,  or  by  dread,  of  change, 

And  if  not  so,  whose  perfect  joy  makes  sleep 

A  thing  too  bright  for  breathing  man  to  keep  I 

Hail  to  tlie  virtues  which  that  {)erilous  life 

Extracts  from  Nature's  elemental  strife  ; 

And  welcome  glory  won  in  battles  fought 

As  bravely  as  the  foe  was  keenly  sought ! 

IJut  to  each  gallant  Captain  and  his  crew 


EVENING   VOLUNTARIES.  175 

A  less  imperious  sympathy  is  due, 

Such  as  my  verse  now  yields,  while  moonbeams  play 

On  the  mute  sea  in  this  unruffled  bay ; 

Such  as  will  promptly  flow  from  every  breast, 

Where  good  men,  disappointed  in  the  quest 

Of  wealth  and  power  and  honors,  long  for  rest  ; 

Or,  having  known  the  splendors  of  success, 

Sigh  for  the  obscurities  of  happiness. 


XI. 


The  Crescent-moon,  the  Star  of  Love, 
Glories  of  evening,  as  ye  there  are  seen 
With  but  a  span  of  sky  between,  — 
Speak  one  of  you,  my  doubts  remove, 

Which  is  the  attendant  Page  and  which  the  Queen  ? 


zn. 

TO   THE   MOON. 

(Composed  by  the  Sea-side,  — on  the  Coast  of  Camberland.) 

Wanderer  !  that  stoop'st  so  low,  and  com'st  so 

near 
To  human  life's  unsettled  atmosphere  ; 
Who  lov'st  with  Night  and  Silence  to  partake, 


J  76  POEMS    OK    THE    IMAGINATION. 

So  might  it  seem,  the  cares  of  them  tliat  wake ; 
And,  through  the  cottage-Uittice  softly  peeping, 
Dost  shield  from  harm  the  humblest  of  the  sleeping ; 
What  pleasure  once  encompassed  those  sweet  names 
Which  yet  in  thy  behalf  the  Poet  claims, 
An  idolizing  dreamer  as  of  yoi'e  !  — 
I  slight  them  all ;  and,  on  this  sea-beat  shore 
Sole-sitting,  only  can  to  thoughts  attend     - 
That  bid  me  hail  thee  as  the  Sailok's  Friend  ; 
So  call  thee  for    Heaven's   grace    through   thee 

made  known, 
By  confidence  supplied  and  mercy  shown, 
When  not  a  twinkling  star  or  beacon's  light 
Abates  the  perils  of  a  stormy  night ; 
And  for  less  obvious  benefits,  that  find 
Their  way,  with  thy  pure  lielp,  to  heart  and  mind  ; 
Both  for  the  adventurer  starting  in  life's  prime, 
And  veteran  ran<ring  round  from  clime  to  clime, 
Long-baffled  hope's  slow  fever  in  his  veins. 
And  wounds  and  weakness  oft    his    labor's    sole 

remains. 

The  aspiring  Mountains  and  the  winding  Streams, 
Empress  of  Night !  are  gladdened  by  thy  beams  ; 
A  look  of  thine  the  wilderness  pervades, 
And  penetrates  the  forest's  inmost  shades; 
Thou,  checkering  peaceably  the  minster's  gloom, 
Guid'st  the  pale  Mourner  to  the  lost  one's  tomb; 
Canst  reach  the  Prisoner,  —  to  his  grated  cell 
Welcome,  though  silent  and  intangible  !  — 


EVENIKG    VOLUXTARIES.  177 

A-n J  lives  there  one,  of  all  that  come  and  go 

On  the  great  waters,  toiling  to  and  fro, 

One,  who  has  watched  thee  at  some  quiet  hour, 

Enthroned  aloft-  in  undisputed  powei", 

Or  crossed  by  vapory  streaks  and  clouds  that  movfi 

Catching  the  lustre  they  in  part  reprove, 

A^"  sometimes  felt  a  fitness  in  thy  sway 

To  call  up  thoughts  that  shun  the  glare  of  day. 

And  make  the  serious  happier  than  the  gay  ? 

Yes,  lovely  Moon  !  if  thou  so  mildly  bright 
Dost  rouse,  yet  surely  m  thy  own  despite, 
To  fiercer  mood  the  frenzy-stricken  brain, 
Let  me  a  compensating  faith  maintain  ;  — 
That  there  's  a  sensitive,  a  tender  part 
•I'v'  uich  thou  canst  touch  in  every  human  heart, 
For  healing  and  composure.  —  But,  as  least 
And  mightiest  billows  ever  have  confessed 
Thy  domination  ;  as  the  whole  vast  Sea 
Feels  through  her  lowest  depths  thy  sovereignty  ; 
So  shines  that  countenance  with  especial  grace 
On  them  who  urge  the  keel  her  plains  to  trace, 
Furrowing  its  way  right  onward.     The  most  rude, 
Cut  off  from  home  and  country,  may  have  stood,  — 
Even  till  long  gazing  hath  bedimmed  his  eye. 
Or  the  mute  rapture  enf^led  in  a  sigh,  — 
Touched  by  accordance  of  thy  placid  cheer, 
"With  some  internal  lights  to  memory  dear, 
Or  fancies  stealing  forth  to  soothe  the  breast. 
Tired  with  its  dailv  share  of  earth's  unrest, — • 

■■*OL.   IV.  12 


i78  POEMS    or    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Gentle  awakenings,  visitations  meek  ; 

A  kindly  influence  whereof  few  will  speak, 

Though  it  can  wet  with  tears  the  hardiest  cheek. 

And  when  thy  beauty  in  the  shadowy  cave 
Is  hidden,  buried  in  it^  monthly  grave  ; 
Then,  while  the  Sailor,  'mid  an  open  sea 
Swept  by  a  favoring  wind  that  leaves  thought  free, 
Paces  the  deck,  —  no  star  perhaps  in  sight, 
And  nothing  save  the  moving  ship's  own  light 
To  cheer  the  long,  dark  hours  of  vacant  night,  — 
Oft  with  his  musings  does  thy  image  blend. 
In  his  mind's  eye  thy  crescent  horns  ascend, 
And  thou  art  still,  0  Moon,  that  Sailor's  Fkikxd  ! 

I»d5. 


xin. 

TO   THE    MOON. 
(kydal.) 


Queen  of  the  stars!  so  gentle,  so  benign. 
That  ancient  Fable  did  to  thee  assign, 
"When  darkness  creeping  o'er  thy  silver  brow 
Warned  thee  these  uppe?  regions  to  forego, 
Alternate  empire  in  the  shades  below,  — 
A  Bard,  who  lately,  near  the  wide-spread  sea 
Traversed  by  gleaming  ships,  looked  up  to  thee 
With  grateful  thoughts,  doth  now  thy  rising  hail 


EVENING    VOLUNTAKIES.  179 

From  the  close  confines  of  a  shadowy  vale. 
Glory  of  night,  conspicuous  yet  serene, 
Nor  less  attractive  wlien  by  glimpses  seen 
Through  cloudy  umbrage,  well  might  that  fair  face, 
And  all  those  attributes  of  modest  grace. 
In  days  when  Fancy  wrought  unchecked  by  fear, 
Down  to  the  green  earth  fetch  thee  from  thy  sphere 
To  sit  in  leafy  woods  by  fountains  clear  ! 

O  still  beloved,  (for  thine,   meek  Power,   are 
charms 
That  fascinate  the  very  Babe  in  arms. 
While  he,  uplifted  towards  thee,  laughs  outriglit. 
Spreading  his  little  palms  in  his  glad  Mother's  sight.) 
O    still  beloved,    once    worshipped !    Time,    that 

frowns 
In  his  destructive  flight  on  earthly  crowns, 
Spares  thy  mild  splendor ;  still  those  far-shot  beams 
Tremble  on  dancing  waves  and  rippling  streams 
With  stainless  touch,  as  chaste  as  when  thy  praise 
Was  sung  by  Virgin-choirs  in  festal  lays  ; 
And  through  dark  trials  still  dost  thou  explore 
Thy  way  for  increase  punctual  as  of  yore. 
When  teeming  Matrons  —  vielding  to  rude  faith 
In  mysteries  of  birth  and  life  and  death 
And  painful  struggle  and  deliverance  —  prayed 
Of  thee  to  visit  them  with  lenient  aid. 
What  though  the  rites  be  swept  away,  the  fones 
Extinct  that  echoed  to  the  votive  strains ; 
Yet  thy  mild  aspect  does  not,  cannot,  cease 


180  POKMS    OF    TUIi    IMAGINATION. 

Lovu  to  promote  and  purity  and  peace  ; 
And  Fancy,  unreproved,  even  yet  may  trace 
Faint  types  of  suffering  in  tiiy  beamless  face. 

Then,  silent  Monitress  !    let  us  —  not  blind 
To  worlds  unthousjlit  of  till  the  seai'chinn;  mini 
Of  Science  laid  them  open  to  mankind,  — 
Told,  also,  how  the  voiceless  heavens  declare 
God's  glory  ;  and  acknowledging  thy  share 
In  that  blest  charge  ;  let  us  —  without  offence 
To  aught  of  higliest,  holiest,  influence  — 
Receive  whatever  good  't  is  given  thee  to  dispense. 
May  sage  and  simple,  catching  with  one  eye 
The  moral  intimations  of  the  sky, 
Learn  from  thy  course,  where'er  their  own  be  tafcjn, 
"  To  look  on  tempests,  and  be  never  shaken  " ; 
To  keep  with  faitliful  step  the  appointed  way 
Ecli[)sing  or  eclipsed,  by  night  or  day, 
And  from  example  of  thy  monthly  range 
Gently  to  brook  decline  and  fatal  change  ; 
jMeek,  patient,  steadfast,  and  with  lofti(;r  scope 
Than  thy  revival  yields  for  gladsome  hope  ! 


XIV. 

TO  LUCCA   GIORDANO. 


Giordano,  verily  tliy  Pencil's  skill 

II  III;  here  portrayed  with  Nature's  liappiest  grace 


EVENING    VOLUNTARIES.  181 

riie  fair  Endymion  couched  on  Latinos  hill ; 
And  Diun  gazing  on  the  Shepherd's  face 
In  rapture,  yet  suspending  her  embrace, 
As  not  unconscious  witli  what  power  the  thrill 
Of  her  most  timid  touch  his  sleep  would  cliase, 
And,  with  his  sleep,  that  beauty  calm  and  still. 
0  may  this  work  have  found  its  last  retreat 
Here  in  a  Mountain-bard's  secure  abode ! 
One  to  whom,  yet  a  School-boy,  Cynthia  showed 
A  face  of  love  which  he  in  love  would  greet, 
Fixed,  by  her  smile,  upon  some  rocky  seat. 
Or  lured  along  where  greenwood  paths  he  trod. 
Rydal  Mount.  1?46. 


XV. 

"Who  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  moon  on  tugu 
Travelling  where  she  from  time  to  timn  enshrouds 
Her  head,  and  nothing  loth  her  majesty 
Renounces,  till  among  the  scattered  clouds 
One  with  its  kindlinnr  edge  declares  that  soon 
Will  reappear  before  the  uplifted  eye 
A  Form  as  bright,  as  beautiful  a  moon. 
To  glide  in  open  prospect  through  clear  sky. 
Pity  that  such  a  promise  e'er  should  prove 
False  in  the  issue,  that  yon  seeming  space 
Of  sky  should  be  in  truth  the  steadfast  face 
Of  a  cloud  flat  and  dense,  through  which  must  move 
(By  transit  not  unlike  man's  frequent  doom) 
1'he  Wandtver  lost  in  more  determined  gloom. 

1846 


182  POEMS    OF    THE    I:SIAG1NATJ0N. 


XVI. 

Wheije  lies  the  truth  ?  has  Man,  in  w.'sdom's  creed, 
A.  pitiable  doom  ;  for  respite  brief 
A  care  more  anxious,  or  a  heavier  errief  <* 
Is  he  ungrateful,  and  doth  little  heed 
God's  bounty,  soon  forgotten  ;  or  indeed 
Must  Man,  with  labor  born,  awake  to  sorrow 
When  Flowers  rejoice  and  Larks  with  rival  speed 
Spring  from  their  nests  to  bid  the  Sun  ffooa  morrow  ? 
They  mount  for  rapture,  as  their  sonars  oroclaira 
Warbled  in  hearing  both  of  earth  and  skv 
But  o'er  the  contrast  wherefore  heave  a  sign  r 
Like  those  aspirants  let  us  soar,  — our  aim. 
Through  life's  worst  trials,  whether  shocks  or  snare.'?, 
A  happier,  brighter,  purer  heaven  than  theirs. 

lAHi 


POEMS, 

COMPOSED  OR    SUGGESTED    DURING   A  To  US,  TH 
THE    SUMMER    OP    1833. 


[  Having  been  prevented  by  the  lateness  of  the  season,  in 
1831,  from  visiting  Staffa  and  lona,  the  author  made  these  the 
principal  objects  of  a  sliort  tour  in  the  summer  of  1833,  of 
which  the  following  series  of  Poems  is  a  memorial.  The 
course  pursued  was  down  the  Cumberland  river  Dervvent,  and 
to  Whitehaven;  thence  (by  the  Isle  of  Man,  where  a  few 
days  were  passed)  iip  the  Frith  of  Clyde  to  Greenock,  then  to 
Oban,  Staffa,  lona ;  and  back  towards  England,  by  Loch  Awe, 
Inverary,  Loch  Goil-head,  Greenock,  and  through  parts  of 
Renfrewshire,  Ayrsliire,  and  Dumfriesshire  to  Carlisle,  atd 
thence  up  the  river  Eden,  and  homewards  by  UUswater.] 


I. 


Adieu,  Rydalian  Laurels  !  that  have  grown 
And  spread  as  if  ye  knew  that  days  might  come 
When  ye  would  shelter  in  a  happy  home, 
On  this  fair  Mount,  a  Poet  of  your  own, 
One  who  ne'er  ventured  for  a  Delphic  crown 
To  sue  the  God  ;  but,  haunting  your  green  shade 
All  seasons  through,  is  humbly  pleased  to  braid 
Ground-flowers,  beneath  your  guardianship,  self- 
sown. 


184  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Farewell !  no  Minstrels  now  with  harp  new-strung 
For   summer   wandering   quiet   their   household 

bowers  ; 
Yet  not  for  this  wants  Poesy  a  tongue 
To  cheer  the  Itinerant  on  whom  she  pours 
Her  spirit,  while  he  crosses  lonely  moors 
Or,  musing,  sits  forsaken  halls  among. 

u. 

Why  should  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  through 

this  Isle, 
Repine  as  if  his  hour  were  come  too  late  ? 
Not  unprotected  in  her  mouldering  state, 
Antiquity  salutes  him  with  a  smile, 
'Mid  fruitful  fields  that  ring  with  jocund  toil. 
And  pleasure-grounds  where  Taste,  refined  Co- 
mate 
Of  Truth  and  Beauty,  strives  to  imitate, 
Far  as  she  may,  primeval  Nature's  style. 
Fair  land  !  by  Time's  parental  love  made  fren. 
By  Social  Order's  watchful  arms  embraced, 
With  unexampled  union  meet  in  thee, 
i  or  eye  and  mind,  the  present  and  the  past ; 
Willi  golden  prospect  for  futurity, 
If  that  be  reverenced  which  ought  to  last. 

III. 

ritr.T  called  thee  Mkuky  England,  in  old  time ; 
V  happy  peoj)le  won  fur  thee  that  name, 


SONNETS.  IS.*) 

With  envy  heard  in  many  a  distant  clime  ; 

And,  spite  of  change,  for  me  tliou  keep'st  the  saino 

Endearing  title,  a  responsive  chime 

To  the  heart's  fond  belief ;  though  some  there  are 

Wliose  sterner  judgments  deem  that  word  a  snare 

For  inattentive  Fancy,  like  the  lime 

Which  foolish  birds  are  caught  with.     Can,  lapk, 

This  face  of  rural  beauty  be  a  mask 

For  discontent,  and  poverty,  and  crime  ; 

These  spreading  towns  a  cloak  for  lawless  will  ? 

Forbid  it,  Heaven  !  —  and  Meruy  England  still 

Shall  be  thy  rightful  name,  in  prose  and  rhyme  i 


IV. 

TO  THE  RIVER  GRETA,   NEAR  KESWICK. 

Greta,  what  fearful  listening !  when  huge  stones 

Rumble  along  thy  bed,  block  after  block : 

Or,  whirling  with  reiterated  shock, 

Combat,  while  darkness  aggravates  the  groans : 

But  if  thou  (like  Cocytus  from  the  moans 

Heard  on  his  rueful  margin)  thence  wert  named 

The  Mourner,  thy  true  nature  was  defamed, 

And  the  habitual  murmur  that  atones 

For  thy  worst  rage,  forgotten.     Oft  as  Spring 

Decks,  on  thy  sinuous  banks,  her  thousand  thrones^ 

Seats  of  glad  instinct  and  Icve's  carolling, 

The  concert,  for  the  happy,  then  may  vie 

With  liveliest  peals  of  birthday  harmony; 

To  a  grieved  heart,  the  notes  are  benisons. 


186  POEjrS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


TO  THE  lilVEK  DERWENT. 


Among  the   mountains  were   we   nursed,   loved 

Stream ! 
Thou  near  tlie  eagle's  nest,  —  within  brief  sail, 
I,  of  his  bold  wing  floating  on  the  gale, 
Where  thy  deep  voice  could  lull  me !     Faint  the 

beam 
Of  liuinan  life  when  first  allowed  to  gleam 
On  mortal  notice.  —  Glory  of  the  vale, 
Such  thy  meek  outset,  with  a  crown,  though  frail. 
Kept  in  perpetual  verdure  by  the  steam 
Of  thy  soft  breath  !  —  Less  vivid  wreath  entwined 
Nem;ean  victor's  brow  ;  less  bright  was  worn 
INIeod  of  some  Roman  chief,  in  triumph  borne 
With  captives  chained,  and  shedding  from  his  car 
The  sunset  splendors  of  a  finished  war 
Upon  the  proud  enslavers  of  mankind  ! 


VI. 

UJ   SIGHT  OF  TIIE  TOWN   OF   COCKERMOUTH. 

'Where  the  Author  was  born,  and  his  Father's  remains  are  laid.) 

A  I'OINT  of  life  between  my  Parents'  dust 
And  yours,  my  buried  Little-ones  !  am  I ; 
And  to  those  graves  looking  habitually, 
In  kindred  quiet  I  repose  my  trust. 
Death  to  the  innocent  is  more  tlian  just. 


SONNETS.  187 

And.  to  the  sinner,  mercifully  bent ; 
3o  raay  I  hope,  if  truly  I  repent 
And  meekly  bear  the  ills  which  bear  I  must : 
And  you,  my  Offspring  !  that  do  still  remain, 
Yet  may  outstrip  me  in  the  appointed  race, 
If  e'er,  through  fault  of  mine,  in  mutual  pain 
We  breathed  together  for  a  moment's  space. 
The  wrong,  by  love  provoked,  let  love  arraign. 
And  only  love  keep  in  your  hearts  a  place 


VII. 

ADDRESS   FEOM   THE   SPIKIT  OF   COCKEEMOUXn  CASTtJt 

«  Tnou  look'st  upon  me,  and  dost  fondly  think, 
Poet !  that,  stricken  as  both  are  by  years, 
We,  differing  once  so  much,  are  now  Compeers, 
Prepared,  when  each  has  stood  his  time,  to  sink 
Into  the  dust.     Erewhile  a  sterner  link 
United  us  ;  when  thou,  in  boyish  play, 
Entering  my  dungeon,  didst  become  a  prey 
To  soul-appalling  darkness.     Not  a  blink 
Of  hght  was  there  ;  —  and  thus  did  I,  thy  Tutor, 
Make  thy  young  thoughts  acquainted    with   the 

grave  ; 
While  thou  wert  chasing  the  winged  butterfly 
Thi-ough  my  green  courts  ;  or  climbing,  a   bold 

suitor, 
Up  to  the  flowers  whose  golden  progeny 
Still  round  my  shattered  brow  in  beauty  wave."* 


188  POKMS    OF    THE   IMAGINATION. 


vin. 

nun's  well,  brigham. 

Til  K  cattle,  crowding  i-ound  this  beverage  clear 

To  slake  their  thirst,  with  reckless  hoofs  have  trod 

The  encircling  turf  into  a  barren  clod. 

Through  which  the  waters  creep,  then  disappear. 

Born  to  be  lost  in  Derwent,  flowing  near ; 

Yet,  o'er  the  brink,  and  round  the  limestone  cell 

Of  the  pure  spring,  (they  call  it  the  "  Nun's  Well," 

Name  that  first  struck  by  chance  my  startled  ear.) 

A  tender  Spirit  broods,  —  the  pensive  Shade 

Of  ritual  honors  to  this  Fountain  paid 

By  Iiooded  Votai'esses  with  saintly  cheer ; 

Albeit  uft  the  Virgin-mother  mild 

Looked  down  with  pity  upon  eyes  beguiled 

Into  the  shedding  of  "  too  soft  a  tear." 


IX. 

TO  A   FRIEND. 

(On  the  Banks  of  the  Derwent.) 

Pastor  and  Patriot !  —  at  whose  bidding  rise 
These  modest  walls,  amid  a  flock  that  need. 
For  one  who  comes  to  watch  them  and  to  feed, 
A  fixed  abode,  —  keep  down  presageful  sighs. 
Tliroats,  which  the  unthinking  only  can  despise, 
Per[)l','X  the  Cluirch  ;  but  be  thou  firm,  — be  true 


SONNETS. 


189 


To  thy  first  hope,  and  this  good  work  pursue, 
Poor  as  thou  art.     A  welcome  sacrifice 
Dost  thou  prepare,  whose  sign  will  be  the  smoke 
Of  thy  new  hearth  ;  and  sooner  shall  its  wreath^, 
Mounting  while  earth  her  morning  incense  breathe^^ 
From  wandering  fiends  of  air  receive  a  yoke, 
And  straightway  cease  to  aspire,  than  God  disdain 
This  humble  ti-ibute  as  ill-timed  or  vain. 


X. 

MARY   QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

(Landing  at  the  ilouth  of  the  Derwent,  Workington.) 

Dear  to  the  Loves,  and  to  the  Graces  vowed. 
The  Queen  drew  back  the  wimple  that  sli*^  wore  ; 
And  to  the  throng,  that  on  the  Cumbrian  shore 
Her  landing  hailed,  how  touchingly  she  bowed  ! 
And  like  a  Star  (that,  from  a  heavy  cloud 
Of  pine-tree  foliage  poised  in  air,  forth  darts, 
When  a  soft  summer  gale  at  evening  parts 
The  gloom  that  did  its  loveliness  enshroud) 
She  smiled  ;  but  Time,  the  old  Saturnian  seer, 
Sighed  on  the  wing  as  her  foot  pressed  the  strand, 
With  step  prelusive  to  a  long  array 
Of  woes  and  degradations  hatid  in  hand,  — 
Weeping  captivity,  and  shuddering  fear 
Stilled  by  the  ensanguined  block  of  Fotheringny  ! 


190  rOEilS    OF   THE   IMAGINATION. 


XI. 


STANZAS 

BDGOESTED   IN  A   STEAMBOAT  OFF  SAINT   BEES'   IIEAD6     ON 
THE   COAST  OF   CUMBERLAND. 

If  Life  were  slumber  on  a  bed  of  clown, 
Toil  unimposed,  vicissitude  unknown, 
Sad  were  our  lot :  no  hunter  of  the  hare 
Exults  like  him  whose  javelin  from  the  lair 
Has  roused  the  lion ;  no  one  plucks  the  rose, 
Whose  proffered  beauty  in  safe  shelter  blows 
'Mid  a  trim  garden's  summer  luxuries, 
With  joy  like  his  who  climbs,  on  hands  and  knees, 
For  some  rare  plant,  yon  Headland  of  St.  Bees. 

This  independence  upon  oar  and  sail, 
This  new  indifference  to  breeze  or  gale, 
This  straight-lined  progress,  furrowing  a  flat  lea. 
And  rejjular  as  if  locked  in  certaintv, 
Depress  the  hours.     Up,  Spirit  of  the  storm  ! 
That  Courage  may  find  something  to  perforin  ; 
That  Fortitude,  wliose  blood  disdains  to  freeze 
At  Danger's  bidding,  may  confront  the  seas, 
Firm  as  the  towering  Headlands  of  St.  Bees. 

Dread  cliff  of  Baruth !  that  wild  wish  may  sleep, 
Bold  as  il"  men  and  creatures  of  the  deep 


STANZAS.  1  0 1 

Breathed  the  same  element  ;  too  many  wrecks 
Have  struck  thy  sides,  too  many  ghastly  decks 
Hast  thou  looked  down  upon,  that  such  a  thought 
Should  here  be  welcome,  and  in  verse  enwrouglit: 
With  thy  stern  aspect  better  far  agrees 
Utterance  of  thanks,  that  we  have  past  with  ease. 
As  millions  thus  shall  do,  tlie  Headlands  of  St.  Bees. 

Yet,  while  each  useful  Art  augments  h.er  store, 
"What  boots  the  gain  if  Nature  should  lose  more  ? 
And  "Wisdom,  as  she  holds  a  Christian  place 
In  man's  intelligence  sublimed  by  grace  ? 
"When  Bega  sought  of  yore  the  Cumbrian  coast, 
Temnestuous  winds  her  holy  errand  crossed  : 
She  knelt  in  prayer,  —  the  waves  their  \Vrath  ap- 
pease ; 
Ana  from  her  vow,  well  weighed  in  Heaven's  de- 
crees, 
Rose,  where  she  touched  the  strand,  the  Chantry  of 
St.  Bees. 

"  Cruel  of  heart  were  they,  bloody  of  hand," 
"Wno  in  these  wilds  then  struggled  for  command  ; 
The  strong  were  merciless,  without  hope  the  weak  ; 
Till  :his  bright  Stranger  came,  fair  as  daybreak, 
And  as  a  cresset  true  that  darts  its  length 
Of  beamy  lustre  from  a  tower  of  strength  ; 
Guidinfr  the  mariner  thi'ough  troubled  seas, 
Ana  cheering  oft  his  peaceful  reveries, 
l^iKe  the  fixed  Light  that  crowns  yon  Headland  of 
St.  Bees. 


192  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

To  aid  the  Votaress,  miracles  believed 
Wrought  in  men's  minds,  like  miracles  achieved; 
So  piety  took  root ;  and  Song  might  tell 
AVhat  humanizing  virtues  near  her  cell 
Sprang  np,  and  spread  their  fragrance  wide  around ; 
How  savasre  bosoms  melted  at  the  sound 
Ot"  Gospel  truth  enciiained  in  harmonies 
Wafted  o'er  waves,  or  creeping  through  close  trees, 
From  her  religious  Mansion  of  St.  Bees. 

When  her  sweet  Voice,  that  instrument  of  love, 
Was  glorified,  and  took  its  place,  above 
The  silent  stars,  among  the  angelic  choir, 
Her  Chantry  blazed  with  sacrilegious  fire, 
And  perished  utterly  ;  but  her  good  deeds 
Had  sown  the  si)ot  that  witnessed  them  with  seeds 
Which  lay  in  earth  expectant,  till  a  breeze 
Witli    quickening  impulse  answered    their  mute 

pleas, 
Aiiu  lo  !  a  statelier  pile,  the  Abbey  of  St.  Bees. 

There  are  the  naked  clothed,  the  hungry  fed ; 

And  Charity  extendeth  to  the  dead 

Her  intercessions  made  for  the  soul's  rest 

Of  tardy  penitents  ;  or  for  the  best 

Among  the  good  (when  love  miglit  else  have  slept, 

Sickened,  or  died)  in  pious  memory  kept. 

Thanks  to  tiie  austere  and  simple  Devotees, 

Who,  to  that  service  bound  by  venial  fees, 

Keep  watch  before  tlic  altars  of  St.  Bees. 


STANZAS.  193 

i^re  not,  in  sooth,  tlieir  Requiems  sacred  ties 

Woven  out  of  passion's  sharpest  agonies, 

Subdued,  composed,  and  formahzed  by  art, 

To  fix  a  wiser  sorrow  in  the  heart  ? 

The  prayer  for  them  whose  hour  is  past  away 

Says  to  the  Living,  profit  while  ye  may  ! 

A  little  part,  and  that  the  worst,  he  sees, 

Who  thinks  that  priestly  cunning  holds  the  keys 

That  best  unlock  the  secrets  of  St.  Bees. 

Conscience,  the  timid  being's  inmost  light, 
Hope  of  the  dawn  and  solace  of  the  night, 
Cheers  these  Recluses  with  a  steady  ray 
In  many  an  hour  when  judgment  goes  asti-ay. 
Ah  !  scorn  not  hastily  their  rule  who  try 
Earth  to  despise  and  flesh  to  mortify, 
Consume  with  zeal,  in  winged  ecstasies 
Of  prayer  and  praise  forget  their  rosaries. 
Nor  hear  the  loudest  surges  of  St.  Bees. 


o 


Yet  none  so  prompt  to  succor  and  protect 
The  forlorn  traveller,  or  sailor  wrecked 
On  the  bare  coast ;  nor  do  they  grudge  the  boon 
Which  staff  and  cockle  hat  and  sandal  shoon 
Claim  for  the  pilgrim:  and,  though  eludings  sharp 
May  sometimes  greet  the  strolling  minstrel's  hf.rp, 
It  is  not  then  when,  swept  with  sportive  ease, 
It  charms  a  feast-day  throng  of  all  degrees, 
brightening  the  archway  of  revered  St.  Bees. 
V  ij.    IV.  13 


I9i  POEMS    OF    THE    lilAGLNATIOX 

How  dill  tlie  cliffs  and  echoing  hills  rejoice 
Wiiat  time  the  Benedictine  Brethren's  voice, 
Imploring,  or  commanding  with  meet  pridf', 
Summoned  the  Chiefs  to  lay  their  feuds  aside. 
And  under  one  blest  ensign  serve  the  Lord 
In  Palestine.     Advance,  indignant  Sword  ? 
Flaming  till  thou  from  Painim  hands  reieast^ 
That  Tomb,  dread  centre  of  all  sanctiru^^ 
Nursed  in  the  quiet  Abbey  of  St.  Bees. 

But  look  we  now  to  them  whose  minds  from  fai 
Follow  the  fortunes  which  they  may  not  share- 
While  in  Judtea  Fancy  loves  to  roam. 
She  helps  to  make  a  Holy  Land  at  home  : 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  from  its  sphere  invites 
To  sound  the  crystal  depth  of  maiden  rights  ; 
And  wedded  Life,  thi-ough  Scri[)tural  mysteries, 
Heavenward  ascends  with  all  her  charities, 
Taught  by  the  hooded  Celibates  of  St.  Bees. 

Nor  be  it  e'er  forgotten  how  by  skill 
Of  cloistered  Architects,  free  their  souls  to  fill 
With  love  of  God,  throughout  the  Land  were  raised 
Churches,  on  whose  symbolic  beauty  gazed 
Peasant  and  mail-clad  Chief  with  pious  awe: 
As  at  this  day  men  seeing  what  they  saw, 
Or  the  baie  wreck  of  faith's  solemnities, 
Aspire  to  UK^re  than  earthly  destinies  ; 
Witness  yon  Pile  that  greets  us  from  St.  Bnea. 


STANZAS.  lfl''5 

iTetmore;  around  those  Churches  gatliei'ed  Towns 

Safe  from  the  feudal  Castle's  haughty  frowns  ; 

Peaceful  abodes,  where  Justice  might  uphold 

Her  scales  with  even  hand,  and  culture  mould 

Tlie  lieart  to  pity,  train  the  mind  in  care 

For  rules  of  life,  sound  as  the  Time  could  bear. 

Nor  dost  thou  fail,  through  abject  love  of  ease, 

Or  hindrance  raised  by  sordid  purposes, 

To  bear  thy  part  in  this  good  work,  St.  Bees. 

Wlio  with  the  ploughshare  clove  the  barren  moors, 
And  to  green  meadows  changed  the  swampy  shores  ? 
Thinned  the  rank   woods  ;  and  for  the  cheerful 

grange 
Made  room  where  wolf  and  boar  were  used  to  range  ? 
Who  taught,  and  showed  by  deeds,  that  gentler 

chains 
Should  bind  the  vassal  to  his  lord's  domains  ? 
The  thoughtful  Monks,  intent  their  God  to  plHa-s«, 
For  Christ's  dear  sake,  by  human  sympathies 
Poured  from  the  bosom  of  thy  Church,  St.  Bees  ' 

But  all  availed  not ;  by  a  mandate  given 
Through  lawless  will,  the  Brotherhood  was  driven 
Forth  from  their  cells ;  their  ancient  House  laid  low 
In  Reformation's  sweeping  overthrow. 
But  now  once  more  the  local  Heart  revives, 
The  inextinguishable  Spirit  strives. 
0  may  that  Power  who  hushed  the  stormy  seaa. 
And  cleared  a  way  for  the  first  Votaries. 
Prosper  the  new-born  College  of  St.  Bees  ! 


t96  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Alas  !  the  Genius  of  our  age  from  Schools 

Less  humble  draws  her  lessons,  aims,  and  rules. 

To  Prowess  guided  by  her  insight  keen 

Matter  and  Spirit  are  as  one  machine  ; 

Boastful  Idolatress  of  formal  skill, 

She  in  her  own  would  merge  the  Eternal  will : 

Better,  if  Reason's  triumphs  match  with  these, 

Her  flight  before  the  bold  credulities 

That  furthered  the  first  teaching  of  St,  Bees.* 

1833. 


XII. 


IW  THE  CHANNEL,   BETWEEN  THE   COAST  OF   CUMBERLAMD 
AND  THE  ISLE  OF  MAN. 

Ranging  the  heights  of  Scawfell  or  Black-oomb, 

In  his  lone  course  the  Shepherd  oft  will  pause. 

And  strive  to  fathom  the  mysterious  laws 

By  which  the  clouds,  arrayed  in  liglit  or  gloom. 

On  INIona  settle,  and  the  shapes  assume 

Of  all  her  peaks  and  ridges.     What  he  draws 

From  sense,  faith,  reason,  fancy,  of  the  cause, 

He  will  take  with  him  to  the  silent  tomb. 

Or,  by  his  fire,  a  child  upon  his  knee, 

Haply  the  untaught  Philosopher  may  speak 

Df  the  strange  sight,  nor  hide  his  theory 

*  See  Excursion,  Scveiitli  Part;  siiid  Kcclesiastical  Sketchefc 
tJecond  Part,  near  tlie  beginning. 


SONNETS.  197 

That  satisfies  the  simple  and  the  meek, 
Blest  in  their  pious  ignorance,  though  weak 
To  cope  with  Sages  undevoutly  free. 


XIII. 

AT  SEA  OFF  THE  ISLE  OF  MAN. 

Bold  words  afloj'med,  in  days  when  faith  was  strong 
And  doubts  and  scruples  seldom  teased  the  brain. 
That  no  adventurer's  bark  had  power  to  gain 
These  shores  if  he  approached  them  bent  on  wrong ; 
For,  suddenly  up-conjured  from  the  Main, 
Mists  rose  to  hide  the  Land, — that  search,  though 

long 
And  eager,  might  be  still  pursued  in  vain. 
O  Fancy,  what  an  age  was  that  for  song ! 
Tliat  age,  when  not  by  laws  inanimate, 
As  men  believed,  the  waters  were  impelled, 
The  air  controlled,  the  stars  their  courses  held ; 
But  element  and  oi-b  on  acts  did  wait 
Of  Powers  endued  with  visible  form,  instinct 
With  will,  and  to  their  work  by  passion  linked. 


XIV. 

Desire  we  past  illusions  to  i-ecall  ? 

To  reinstate  wild  Fancy,  would  we  hide 

Truths  whose  thick  veil  Science  has  drawn  aside  ? 


li>8  POEMS    OF  THE    IMAGINATION. 

No,  —  let  this  Age,  high  as  she  may  install 

In  her  esteem  the  thirst  that  wrought  man's  tall, 

The  universe  is  infinitely  wide; 

And  conquering  Reason,  if  self-glorified, 

Can  nowhere  move  uncrossed  by  some  new  wall 

Oi-  gulf  of  mystery,  which  thou  alone. 

Imaginative  Faith  !  canst  overleap, 

In    progress   toward   the   fount   of   Love,  —  the 

thi-one 
Of  Power  whose  ministers  the  records  keep 
Of  periods  fixed,  and  laws  established,  less 
Flesh  to  exalt  than  prove  its  nothingness. 


XV. 

ON   ENTERING   DOUGLAS    BAY,   ISLE    OF   MAN. 

"  Dignum  laude  viram  Musa  vetat  mori." 

The  feudal  Keep,  the  bastions  of  Cohorn, 
Even  when  they  rose  to  check  or  to  repel 
Tides  of  aggressive  war,  oft  served  as  well 
Greedy  ambition,  armed  to  treat  with  scorn 
Just  limits ;  but  yon  Tower,  whose  smiles  adorn 
This  perilous  bay,  stands  clear  of  all  offence  ; 
Blest  work  it  is  of  love  and  innocence, 
A  Tower  of  refuge  built  for  the  else  forlorn. 
S[)are  it,  ye  waves,  and  lift  the  mariner. 
Struggling  for  life,  into  its  saving  arms  ! 
Spare,  too,  the  human  helpers  !     Do  they  stir 
Mid  your  fierce  shock  like  men  afraid  to  die  ? 


SONNETS.  199 

No  ;  tlieii'  dread  sei'vice  nerves  the  heart  it  warms, 
A.nd  thej  are  led  by  noble  Hillary.* 


XVI. 


"W  HT  stand  we  gazing  on  the  sparkling  Brine, 
With  wonder  smit  by  its  transparency, 
And  all  enraptured  with  its  purity  ?  — 
Because  the  unstained,  the  clear,  the  crystalline, 
Have  ever  in  them  something  of  benign  ; 
Whether  in  gem,  in  water,  or  in  sky, 
A  sleeping  infant's  brow,  or  wakeful  eye 
Of  a  young  maiden,  only  not  divine. 
Scarcely  the  hand  forbears  to  dip  its  palm 
For  beverage  di-awn  as  from  a  mountain  well 
Temptation  centres  in  the  liquid  Calm  ; 
Our  daily  raiment  seems  no  obstacle 
To  instantaneous  plunging  in,  deep  Sea  I 
And  revelling  in  long  embrace  with  thee.+ 

*  See  Note. 

t  The  sea-water  on  the  coast  of  the  Isle  of  Mail  is  singalar- 
\y  pnre  and  bcantifuL 


200  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XVII. 

ISLE  OF  SI  AN. 

A  YOUTH  too  certain  of"  his  power  to  wade 
Oil  the  smooth  bottom  of  this  clear,  bright  sea, 
To  sight  so  shallow,  with  a  bather's  glee, 
Leaped  from  this  rock,  and  but  for  timely  aid 
He,  by  the  alluring  element  betrayed. 
Had  perished.    Then  might  Sea-nymphs  (and  wilh 

sighs 
Of  self-reproach)  have  chanted  elegies 
Bewailing  his  sad  fiite,  when  he  was  laid 
111  peaceful  earth  ;  for,  doubtless,  he  was  frank. 
Utterly  in  himself  devoid  of  guile  ; 
Knew  not  the  double-dealing  of  a  smile  ; 
Nor  aught  that  makes  men's  promises  a  blank, 
Or  deadly  snare  :  and  he  survives  to  bless 
The  Power  that  saved  him  in  his  strange  distress. 


XVIII. 
ISLE  OP  MAK. 

Dii>  pangs  of  grief  for  lenient  Time  foe,  keen, 
Grief  that  devouring  waves  had  caused,  or  guilt 
Which  they  had  witnessed,  sway  the  man  who  built 
This  Homestead,  placed  where  nothing  could  be 

seen, 
Naught  heard,  of  ocean  troubled  or  serene  ? 
A  tired  Shiu-soldier  on  paternal  land, 


SONNETS.  201 

riiat  o'er  the  channel  holds  august  command, 

The  dwelling  raised,  —  a  veteran  Marine. 

He,  in  disgust,  turned  from  the  neighboring  sea 

To  shun  the  memory  of  a  listless  life 

That  hung  between  two  callings.     May  no  strife 

More  hurtful  here  beset  him,  doomed  though  free, 

Self-doomed,  to  worse  inaction,  till  his  eye 

Shrink  from  the  daily  sight  of  earth  and  sky  ! 


XIX. 
BY  A   RETIKED    MARINER. 

(A  Friend  of  the  Author.) 

From  early  youth  I  ploughed  the  restless  Main. 

My  mind  as  restless  and  as  apt  to  change  ; 

Through  every  clime  and  ocean  did  I  range. 

In  hope  at  length  a  competence  to  gain  ; 

For  poor  to  Sea  I  went,  and  poor  I  still  remam. 

Year  after  year  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain. 

And  hardships  manifold  did  I  endure. 

For  Fortune  on  me  never  deigned  to  smile ; 

Yet  I  at  last  a  resting-place  have  found. 

With  just  enough  life's  comforts  to  procure, 

In  a  snug  Cove  on  this  our  favored  Isle, 

A  peaceful  spot  where  Nature's  gifts  abound  ; 

Then  sure  I  have  no  reason  to  complain, 

Though  poor  to  Sea  I  went,  and  poor  I  still  remaini 


202  POEilS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XX. 

AT   BALA-SALA,   ISLE   OF  MAS. 

(Supposed  to  be  written  by  a  Friend.) 

Broken  in  fortune,  but  in  mind  entire 

And  sound  in  principle,  I  seek  repose 

Where  ancient  trees  this  convent-pile  inclose,* 

In  ruin  beautiful.     When  vain  desire 

Intrudes  on  peace,  I  pray  the  Eternal  Sire 

To  cast  a  soul-subduing  shade  on  me, 

A  graj-haired,  pensive,  thankful  Refugee  ; 

A  shade,  —  but  with  some  sparks  of  heavenly  fire 

Once  to  these  cells  vouchsafed.     And  when  I  note 

The  old  Tower's  brow  yellowed  as  with  the  beams 

Of  sunset  ever  there,  albeit  streams 

Of  stormy  weather-stains  that  semblance  wrouirht, 

I  thank  the  silent  Monitor,  and  say, 

"  Shine  so,  my  aged  brow,  at  all  hours  of  the  day  !  " 


XXI. 

TYNWALD   HILL. 

Once  on  the  top  of  Tynwald's  formal  mound 
(Still  marked  with  green  turf  circles  narrowing 
Stage  above  stage)  would  sit  this  Island's  Kiiiq, 
The  laws  to  promulgate,  enrobed  and  crowned  ; 

♦  Kushen  Abbey. 


SONNETS.  203 

While,  compassing  the  little  mound  around, 
Degrees  and  Orders  stood,  each  under  each : 
Now,  hke  to  things  within  fate's  easiest  reach, 
The  power  is  merged,  the  pomp  a  grave  has  found. 
Off  with  yon  cloud,  old  Snafell !  that  thine  eye 
Over  three  Realms  may  take  its  widest  range ; 
And  let,  for  them,  thy  fountains  utter  strange 
Voices,  thy  winds  break  forth  in  prophecy. 
If  the  whole  State  must  suffer  mortal  change, 
Like  Mona's  miniature  of  sovereignty. 


XXII. 

Despond  who  will,  —  /heard  a  voice  exclaim, 
"  Though  fierce  the  assault,  and  shattered  the  de» 

fence. 
It  cannot  be  that  Britain's  social  frame. 
The  glorious  work  of  time  and  providence, 
Before  a  flying  season's  rash  pretence 
Should  fall ;  that  she,  whose  virtue  put  to  shame, 
When  Europe  prostrate  lay,  the  Conquei-or's  aim, 
Should  perish,  self-subverted.     Black  and  dense 
The  cloud  is  ;  but  brings  that  a  day  of  doom 
To  Liberty  ?     Her  sun  is  up  the  while. 
That  orb  whose  beams  round  Saxon  Alfred  shone  : 
Then   laugh,    ye   innocent   Vales !   ye    Streams, 

sweep  on. 
Nor  let  one  billow  of  our  heaven-blest  Isle 
Toss  in  the  fanning  wind  a  humbler  plume." 


204  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XX  III. 
I>   THE   FRITH   OF   CLYDE,   AILSA   CRAQ. 

(During  an  Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  July  17.) 

Since  risen  from  ocean,  ocean  to  defy, 
Appeared  the  Crag  of  Ailsa,  ne'er  did  morn 
With  gleaming  lights  more  gracefully  adorn 
His  sides,  or  wreathe  with  mist  his  forehead  high 
Now,  faintly  darkening  with  tiie  sun's  eclipse. 
Still  is  he  seen,  in  lone  sublimity. 
Towering  above  the  sea  and  little  ships ; 
For  dwarfs  the  tallest  seem  while  sailing  by, 
Each  for  her  haven  ;  w'ith  her  freight  of  Care, 
Pleasure,  or  Grief,  and  Toil  that  seldom  looks 
Into  the  secret  of  to-morrow's  fare  ; 
Though  poor,  yet  rich,  without  the  wealth  of  books, 
Or  aught  that  watchful  Love  to  Nature  owes 
For  her  mute  Powers,  fix'd  Forms,  or  transient 
Shows. 


XXIV. 

ON  THE   FRITH  OF    CLYDE. 

(In  a  Steamboat.) 

Arran  !  a  single-crested  TenerifTe, 
A  St.  Helena  next,  —  in  shape  and  hue 
Varying  her  crowded  peaks  and  ridges  blue; 
Who  but  must  covet  a  cloud-.seat,  or  skiff 
Built  for  tlie  air,  or  winged  Illppogi-iir, 


SONNETS.  205 

That  he  might  fly,  where  no  one  could  pursue, 
From  this  dull  Monster  and  her  sooty  crew ; 
And,  as  a  God,  light  on  thy  topmost  cliff? 
Impotent  wish  !  which  reason  would  despise 
If  the  mind  knew  no  union  of  extremes. 
No  natural  bond  between  the  boldest  schemes 
Ambition  frames,  and  heart-humilities. 
Beneath  stern  mountains  many  a  soft  vale  lies. 
And  lofty  springs  give  birth  to  lowly  streams. 

XXV. 

ON  KEVISITING  DUNOLLY   CASTLE. 

[See  fonner  series,  Vol.  III.  p.  280.] 

The  ca{)tive  Bird  was  gone  ;  —  to  cliff  or  moor 

Perchance  had  flown,  delivered  by  the  storm  ; 

Or  he  had  pined,  and  sunk  to  feed  the  worm  : 

Him  found  we  not :  but,  climbing  a  tall  tower. 

There  saw,  impaved  with  rude  fidelity 

Of  art  mosaic,  in  a  roofless  floor, 

An  Eagle  with    stretched   wings,   but   beamlesa 

eye,— 
An  Eagle  that  could  neither  wail  nor  soar. 
EfBgy  of  the  vanished,  —  (shall  I  dare 
To  call  thee  so  ?)  or  symbol  of  fierce  deeds 
And  of  the  towering  courage  which  past  times 
Rejoiced  in,  —  take,  whate'er  thou  be,  a  share 
Not  undeserved,  of  the  memorial  rhymes 
That  animate  my  way  where'er  it  leads  I 


206  POEMS    OF   THE   LUAGINATION 


XXVI. 

THE  DUXOLLY   EAGLE. 

Not  to  the  clouds,  not  to  the  cliff,  he  tiew ; 
But  when  a  storm,  on  sea  or  mountain  bred, 
Came  and  delivered  him,  alone  he  sped 
Into  the  castle-dungeon's  darkest  mew. 
Now,  near  his  master's  house  iiv  open  view 
He  dwells,  and  hears  indignant  tempests  howl, 
Kennelled  and  chained.     Ye  tame  domestic  fowl, 
Beware  of  him  !     Thou,  saucy  cockatoo, 
Look  to  thy  plumage  and  thy  life  !  —  The  roe. 
Fleet  as  the  west  wind,  is  for  Mm  no  quarry  ; 
Balanced  in  ether  he  will  never  tarry, 
Eyeing  the  sea's  blue  depths.     Poor  Bird  I  even  so 
Doth  man  of  brother  man  a  creature  make 
That  clings  to  slavery  for  its  own  sad  sake. 


xxvii. 

^NTRITTEN   IN   A   BLANK   LEAF   OF   MACPHERSON's 

OSSIAN. 

Oft  have  I  caught,  ujion  a  fitful  breeze, 
Fragments  of  far-off  melodies, 
With  ear  not  coveting  the  whole, 
A  part  so  charmed  the  pensive  soul : 


•WRITTEN  IN  MACPHERSOn'S  OSSIAN.       207 

Wliile  a  dark  storm  before  my  sight 

Was  yielding,  on  a  mountain  height 

Loose  vapors  have  I  watched,  that  won 

Prismatic  colors  from  the  sun  ; 

Nor  felt  a  wish  that  heaven  would  show 

The  image  of  its  perfect  bow. 

What  need,  then,  of  these  finished  Strains? 

Away  with  counterfeit  Remains  ! 

An  abbey  in  its  lone  recess, 

A  temple  of  the  wilderness, 

Wrecks  though  they  be,  announce  with  feeling 

The  majesty  of  honest  dealing. 

Spirit  of  Ossian  !  if  imbound 

In  language  thou  mayst  yet  be  found. 

If  aught  (intrusted  to  the  pen 

Or  floating  on  the  tongues  of  men, 

Albeit  shattered  and  impaired) 

Subsist  thy  dignity  to  guard, 

In  concert  with  memorial  claim 

Of  old  gray  stone,  and  high-born  name 

That  cleaves  to  rock  or  pillared  cave 

Where  moans  the  blast  or  beats  the  wave, 

Let  Truth,  stern  arbitress  of  all, 

Interpret  that  Original, 

And  for  presumptuous  wrongs  atone  ;  — 

Authentic  words  be  given,  or  none ! 

Tune  is  not  blind  ;  —  yet  he,  who  spares 
Pyramid  pointing  to  the  stars. 
Hath  preyed  with  ruthless  appetite 


208  f>OEJI.i    OF    THK    IMAGINATION. 

On  all  that  marked  the  primal  flight 
Of  the  poetic  ecstasy 
Into  the  land  of  mystery. 
No  tongue  is  able  to  rehearse 
One  measure,  Orpheus  !  of  thy  verse  ; 
Musaeus,  stationed  with  his  lyre 
Supreme  among  the  Elysian  choir, 
Is,  for  the  dwellers  upon  earth, 
Mute  as  a  lark  ere  morning's  birth. 
Why  grieve  for  these,  though  past  away 
The  music,  and  extinct  the  lay  ? 
When  thousands,  by  severer  doom. 
Full  early  to  the  silent  tomb 
Have  sunk,  at  Nature's  call ;  or  strayed 
From  hope  and  promise,  self-betrayed  ; 
The  garland  withering  on  their  brows  ; 
Stung  with  remorse  for  broken  vows  ; 
Frantic,  —  else  how  might  they  rejoice  ? 
And  friendless,  by  their  own  sad  choice  ! 

Hail,  Bards  of  mightier  grasp  !  on  you 
I  chiefly  call,  the  chosen  Few, 
Who  cast  not  off  the  acknowledged  guide. 
Who  faltered  not,  nor  turned  aside  ; 
Whose  lofty  genius  could  survive 
Privation,  under  sorrow  thrive  ; 
In  whom  the  fiery  Muse  revered 
The  symbol  of  a  snow-white  beard, 
li.^dewed  with  meditative  tears 
Dropped  from  the  lenient  cloud  ol  years. 


SONNETS.  209 

Brothers  in  soul !  though  distant  times 
Produced  you  nursed  in  various  climes, 
Ye,  when  the  orb  of  life  had  waned, 
A  plenitude  of  love  retained  : 
Hence,  while  in  you  each  sad  regret 
By  corresponding  hope  was  met, 
Ye  lingered  among  human  kind, 
Sweet  voices  for  the  passing  wind : 
Departing  sunbeams,  loth  to  stop. 
Though  smiling  on  the  last  hill-top  ! 
Such  to  the  tender-hearted  maid 
Even  ere  her  joys  begin  to  fade, 
Such,  haply,  to  the  rugged  chief 
By  fortune  crushed,  or  tamed  by  grief, 
Appeai-s,  on  Morven's  lonely  shore, 
Dim-gleaming  through  imperfect  lore, 
The  Son  of  Fingal ;  such  was  blind 
Mjeonides  of  ampler  mind  ; 
Such  Milton,  to  the  fountain-head 

Of  glory  by  Urania  led  ! 

1824. 


XXVIII. 


CAVE   OF   STAKFA. 


We  saw,  but  surely,  in  the  motley  crowd. 
Xot  one  of  us  has  felt  the  far-famed  sight  i 

t'OL.    IV.  14 


210  POEJIS    OF   THE   IJIAGINATION. 

How  could  we  feel  it?  each  the  other's  height. 

Hurried  and  hurrying,  volatile  and  loud. 

0  for  those  inotions  onl}''  that  invhe 

Tlie  Gliost  of  Fingal  to  his  tuneful  Cave 

IJy  the  bi'eeze  entered,  and  wave  after  wave 

Softly  embosoming  the  timid  light ! 

And  by  one  Votary,  who  at  will  might  stand 

Gazing,  and  take  into  his  mind  and  heart, 

With  undistracted  reverence,  the  effect 

Of  those  proportions  where  the  almighty  hand 

That  made  the  worlds,  the  sovereign  Architect, 

Has  deigned  to  work  as  if  with  human  Art ! 


XXIX. 

CAVE   OF   STAFFA. 

(After  the  Crowd  had  departed.) 

TuAJJKS  for  the  lessons  of  this  spot,  —  fit  school 
For  the  presumptuous  thoughts  that  would  assign 
Mechanic  laws  to  agency  divine  ; 
Ann,  measuring  heaven  by  earth,  would  overrule 
iMfmite  Power.     The  pillared  vestibule, 
Expanding  yet  precise,  the  roof  embowed, 
JVIight  seem  designed  to  humble  man,  when  proud 
Of  his  best  workmanship  by  plan  and  tool. 
Down-bearing  with  his  whole  Atlantic  weiglit 
Of  tide  and  tempest  on  that  Structure's  Iwse, 
Auf*  flashing  to  that  Structure's  topmost  height, 
Ocean  has  ])roved  its  strength,  and  of  its  grace 


SONNETS  211 


In  caltns  is  conscious,  finding  for  his  freight 
Of  softest  music  some  responsive  place. 


XXX. 

CAVE  OF  STAFFA. 

Ye  shadowy  Beings,  that  have  rights  and  claims 
In  every  cell  of  Fingal's  mystic  Grot, 
Where  are  ye  ?     Driven  or  venturing  to  the  spot, 
Our  fathers  glimpses  caught  of  your  thin  Frames, 
And,  by  your  mien  and  bearing,  knew  your  names  ; 
And  they  could  hear  his  ghostly  song  who  trod 
Earth,  till  the  flesh  lay  on  him  like  a  load, 
While  he  struck  his  desolate  harp  without  hopes 

or  aims. 
Vanished  ye  are,  but  subject  to  recall ; 
Why  keep,  we  else  the  instincts  whose  dread  law 
Ruled  here  of  yore,  till  what  men  felt  thev  ^?,'v. 
Not  by  black  arts  but  magic  natural ! 
If  eyes  be  still  sworn  vassals  of  belief. 
Yon  light  shapes  forth  a  Bard,  that  shade  a  Chief, 


XXXI. 

nXJWKRS  ON  THE  TOP  OF  THE  PILI.ARS  AT  THE   EXTRANCK 
OF  THE   CAVE. 

Hope  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  ca«t. 
Children  of  Summer !    Ye  fresh  Flowers  that  brave 


212  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION'. 

Wliat  Summer  here  escapes  not,  the  fiercf;  wave. 
And  whole  artillery  of  the  western  blast, 
Battering  the  Temple's  front,  its  long-drawn  nave 
Smiting,  as  if  each  moment  were  their  last. 
But  ye,  bright  Flowers,  on  frieze  and  architrave 
Survive,  and  once  again  the  Pile  stands  fast; 
Calm  as  the  Universe,  from  specular  towers 
Of  heaven  contemplated  by  Spirits  pure 
With  mute  astonishment,  it  stands  sustained 
Through  every  part  in  symmetry,  to  endure, 
Unhurt,  the  assault  of  Time  with  all  his  houis, 
As  the  Supreme  Artificer  ordained. 


XXXII. 

lONA. 

On  to  lona !  —  What  can  she  aflFord 

To  Its  save  matter  for  a  thoughtful  sigh, 

Heaved  over  ruin  with  stability 

In  urgent  contrast  ?     To  diffuse  the  WouD 

(Thy   Paramount,  mighty  Nature  !    and  Time'a 

Lord) 
Her  Temples  rose,  'mid  pagan  gloom  ;  but  why 
Even  for  a  moment,  has  our  verse  dejtlored 
Their  wrongs,  since  they  fulfilled  their  destiny? 
And  when,  subjected  to  a  common  doom 
Of  mutability,  those  far-famed  Piles 
Shall  disappear  from  both  the  sister  Isles, 
lona's  Saints,  forgetting  not  past  days. 


SONNETS.  213 

Garlandi  shall  wear  of  aoaaranthine  bloom, 
While  heaven's   vast  sea  of  voices  chants  their 
praise. 


XXXIII. 

lONA. 

(Upon  Landing.) 

How  sad  a  welcome !     To  each  voyager 
Some  ragged  child  holds  up  for  sale  a  store 
Of  wave-worn  pebbles,  pleading  on  the  shore 
Where  once  came  monk  and  nun  with  gentle  stir, 
Blessings  to  give,  news  ask,  or  suit  prefer. 
Yet  is  yon  neat,  trim  church  a  grateful  speck 
Of  novelty  amid  the  sacred  wreck 
Strewn  far  and  wide.    Think,  proud  Philosopher! 
Fallen  though  she  be,  this  Glory  of  the  West. 
Still  on  her  sons  the  beams  of  mercy  shine  ; 
And  "  hopes,  perhaps  more  heavenly  bright  than 

thine, 
A  grace  by  thee  unsought  and  unpossest, 
A  faith  more  fixed,  a  rapture  more  divine, 
Shall  gild  their  passage  to  eternal  rest." 


214  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

XXXIV. 

THE  BLACK  STONKS  OF  lONA. 

[See  Martin's  Voyage  among  the  Western  Isles.] 

Hkke  on  their  knees  men  swore:  ine  stones  were 

black, 
Black  in  the  people's  minds  and  words,  yet  they 
Were  at  that  time,  as  now,  in  color  gray. 
But  what  is  color,  if  upon  the  rack 
Of  conscience  souls  are  placed  by  deeds  that  lack 
Concord  with  oaths  ?     Wliat  differ  night  and  day 
Then,  when  before  the  Perjured  on  liis  M'ay 
Hell  opens,  and  the  heavens  in  vengeance  ci  ack 
Above  his  head  uplifted  in  vain  prayer 
To  Saint,  or  Fiend,  or  to  the  Godhead  whom 
He  had  insulted,  —  Peasant,  King,  or  Thane  ? 
Fly  where  the  culprit  may,  guilt  meets  a  doom ; 
And,  from  invisible  worlds  at  need  laid  bare, 
Come  links  for  social  order's  awful  chain. 


XXXV. 

Homeward  we  turn.     Isle  of  Columba's  Ceil, 
Where  Christian  piety's  soul-cheering  spark 
(Kindled  from  Heaven  between  thelight  and  dark 
Of  time)  shone  like  the  morning-star,  farewell!  — 
And  fare  thee  well,  to  Fancy  visible, 
Remote  St.  Kilda,  lone  and  loved  sea-mai-k 


SONXETS.  215 

For  many  a  voyage  made  in  her  swift  bark, 
When  with  more  hues  than  in  the  rainbow  dwell 
Thou  a  mysterious  intercourse  dost  hold, 
Extracting  from  clear  skies  and  air  serene, 
And  out  of  sun-bright  waves,  a  lucid  veil. 
That  thickens,  spreads,  and,  mingling  fold  with  fold, 
Makes  knoAvn,  when  thou  no  longer  canst  be  seen, 
Thy  whereabout,  to  warn  the  approaching  sail. 


XXXVI. 

GREEXOCK. 

Per  me  si  va  nella  Citta  dolente. 

We  have  not  passed  into  a  doleful  City, 

We  who  were  led  to-day  down  a  grim  dell, 

By  some  too  boldly  named  "  the  Jaws  of  Hell " : 

Where  be  the  wretched  ones,  the  sights  for  pity  ? 

These  crowded  streets  resound  no  plaintive  ditty : — 

As  from  the  hive  where  bees  in  summer  dwell, 

Sorrow  seems  here  excluded ;  and  that  knell, 

It  neither  damps  the  gay,  nor  checks  the  w^itty. 

Alas  !  too  busy  Rival  of  old  Tyre, 

Whose  merchants  Princes  we're,  whose  decks  were 

thrones  ; 
Soon  may  the  punctual  sea  in  vain  respire 
To  serve  thy  need,  in  union  with  that  Clyde 
Whose  nursling  current  brawls  o'er  mossy  stones 
The  poor,  the  lonely  herdsman's  joy  and  pride. 


216  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 


XXXVII. 

"  There  ! "  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet 

pride 
Towards  a  low  roof  with  green  trees  half  concealt^d, 
"  Is  Mosgiel  Farm  ;  and  that 's  the  very  field 
Where  Bums  ploughed  up  the  Daisy."     Far  and 

Avide 
A  plain  below  stretched  seaward,  while,  descried 
Above  sea-clouds,  the  Peaks  of  Arran  rose  ; 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air  was  vivified. 
Beneath  "  the  random  Held  of  clod  or  stone," 
]\Iyriads  of  daisies  have  shone  forth  in  flower 
Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 
Have  passed  away  ;  less  happy  than  the  one 
That,  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare,  died  to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love. 


XXXVIII. 

THE  RIVER.EDEN,   CUMDERLAND. 

Eden  !  till  now  thy  beauty  had  I  viewed 
By  glimpses  only,  and  confess  with  sliame 
That  verse  of  mine,  whate'er  its  varying  mood, 
Repeats  but  once  the  sound  of  thy  sweet  name  : 
Yet  fetched  from  Paradise  that  honor  came, 
Uightfully  borne ;  for  Nature  gives  thee  flowers 


SONNETS.  217 

That  have  no  rivals  among  British  bowers, 
4.nd  thy  bold  rocks  are  worthy  of  their  fame- 
Measuring  thy  course,  fair  Stream !  at  length  I  pay 
To  ray  life's  neighbor  dues  of  neighborhood  ; 
But  I  have  traced  thee  on  thy  winding  way 
With  pleasure  sometimes  by  this  thought  restrained, 
For  things  far  off  we  toil,  while  many  a  good 
Not  sought,  because  too  near,  is  never  gained. 


XXXIX. 

MONUMENT   OP  MRS.    HOWARD, 

(By  NoUekens,) 
In  Wetheral  Church,  near  Corby,  on  the  Banks  of  the  Edea 

Stretched  on  the  dying  Mother's  lap  lies  dead 
Her  new-born  Babe  ;  dire  ending  of  bright  hope  ! 
But  Sculpture  here,  with  the  divinest  scope 
Of  luminous  faith,  heavenward  hath  raised  that 

head 
So  patiently  ;  and  through  one  hand  has  spread 
A  touch  so  tender  for  the  insensate  Child,  — 
(Earth's  lingering  love  to  parting  reconciled, 
Brief  parting,  for  the  spirit  is  all  but  fled,)  — 
That  we,  who  contemplate  the  turns  of  life 
Through    this    still    medium,    are    consoled    and 

cheered  ; 
P'eel  with  the  Mother,  think  the  severed  Wife 
Is  less  to  be  lamented  than  revered ; 


218  POEMS    OF  THE    IMAGINA.TION. 

A-iifl  own  that  Art,  triumphant  over  strife 
And  pain,  hath  powers  to  Eternity  endeared. 


XL. 

SUGGESTED   BY  THE  FOREGOING. 

Tranquillity  !  the  sovereign  aim  wert  thou 
In  heathen  schools  of  philosophic  lore; 
Heart-stricken  by  stern  destiny,  of  yore 
The  Trao;ic  Muse  thee  served  with  thoughtful  vow ; 
And  what  of  hope  Elysium  could  allow 
Was  fondly  seized  by  Sculpture,  to  restore 
Peace  to  the  Mourner.     But  when  He  who  wore 
The  crown  of  thorns  around  his  bleeding  brow 
Warmed  our  sad  being  with  celestial  light, 
Then  Arts  which  still  had  drawn  a  softening  grace 
From  shadowy  fountains  of  the  Infinite, 
Communed  with  that  Idea  face  to  face : 
And  move  around  it  now  as  planets  run, 
Each  in  its  orbit,  round  the  central  Sun. 


XLI. 

NUNNEKY. 

Thk  floods  are  roused,  and  will  not  soon  be  weaiy ; 
Oown  from  the  Pennine  Alps*  how  fiercely  sweeps 

*  The  chain  of  Crossfell. 


SONNETS.  219 

CuOGLiN,  the  stately  Eden's  tributary  ! 
He  raves,  or  through  some  moody  passago  creeps 
x^lotting  new  mischief,  —  out  again  he  leaps 
Into  broad  light,  and  sends,  thi'ough  regions  airy, 
That  voice  which  soothed  the  Nuns  while  on  the 

steeps 
They  knelt  in  prayer,  or  sang  to  blissful  Mary. 
That  union  ceased :  then,  cleaving  easy  walks 
Through  crags,  and  smoothing  paths  beset  with 

danger. 
Came  studious  Taste;  and  many  a  pensive  stranger 
Dreams  on  the  banks,  and  to  the  river  talks. 
What  change  shall  happen  next  to  Nunnery  Dell? 
Canal,  and  Viaduct,  and  Railway,  tell ! 


XLn. 

STEAMBOATS,   VIADUCTS,   AND   RAILWAYS. 

Motions  and  Means,  ou  land  and  sea  at  war 

With  old  poetic  feeling,  not  for  this 

Shall  ye,  by  Poets  even,  be  judged  amiss  ! 

Nor  shall  your  presence,  how^soe'er  it  mar 

The  loveliness  of  Nature,  prove  a  bar 

To  the  Mind's  gaining  that  prophetic  sense 

Of  future  change,  that  point  of  vision,  whence 

May  be  discovered  what  in  soul  ye  are. 

In  spite  of  all  that  beauty  may  disown 

In  your  hai'sh  features,  Nature  doth  embrace 

Her  lawful  offspring  in  Man's  art ;  and  Time, 


220  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Pleased  with  your  triumphs  o'ei"  liis  brother  Spuce, 
Accepts  from  your  bold  hands  the  proffered  crown 
Of  hope,  and  smiles  on  you  with  cheer  sublime. 


XLIII. 

THE   MONUMENT   COMMONLY   CALLED    LONG   MEG    AND   HER 
DAUGHTERS,   NEAR    THE   lUVER  EDEN. 

A  WEIGHT  of  awe,  not  easy  to  be  borne, 

Fell  suddenly  upon  my  Spirit,  —  c;ist 

From  the  dread  bosom  of  the  unknown  past, 

When  first  I  saw  that  family  forlorn. 

Speak  Thou,  whose  massy  strength  and  stature 

scorn 
The  power  of  years, —  preeminent,  and  placed 
Apart,  to  overlook  the  circle  vast,  — 
Speak,  Giant-mother !  tell  it  to  the  Morn 
While  she  dispels  the  cumbrous  shades  of  Night; 
Let  the  Moon  hear,  emerging  from  a  cloud  ; 
At  whose  behest  uprose  on  British  ground 
That  Sisterhood,  in  hieroglyphic  round 
Forth-shadowing,  some  have  deemed,  the  infinite. 
The  inviolable  God,  that  tames  the  proud  !  * 

*  See  Note. 


SOKNEXS.  ^^1 

XLIV. 

LOWTHEE. 

LowTHER  !  in  thy  majestic  Pile  are  seen 

Catliedral  pomp  and  grace,  in  apt  accord 

With  the  baronial  castle's  sterner  mien ; 

Union  significant  of  God  adored, 

And  charters  won  and  guarded  by  the  sword 

Of  ancient  honor  ;  whence  that  goodly  state 

Of  polity  which  wise  men  venerate, 

And  will  maintain,  if  God  his  help  afford. 

Houi-ly  the  democratic  torrent  swells  ; 

For  airy  promises  and  hopes  suborned 

The    strength   of   backward-looking   thoughts    la 

scorned. 
Fall  if  ye  must,  ye  Towers  and  Pinnacles, 
With  what  ye  symbolize  ;  authentic  Story 
Will  say,  Ye  disappeared  with  England's  Glory  1 

XLV. 

TO  THE   EARL  OF   LONSDALE 

"  Magistratus  indicat  viram." 

Lonsdale  !  it  were  unworthy  of  a  Guest, 
Whose  heart  with  gratitude  to  thee  inchnes, 
If  he  should  speak,  by  fancy  touched,  of  signs 
On  thy  Abode  harmoniously  imprest. 
Yet  be  unmoved  with  wishes  to  attest 
How  in  thy  mind  and  moral  frame  agree 
Fortitude,  and  that  Christian  Charity 


222  POEMS    OF    TUE    IMAGINATION. 

Which,  filling,  consecrates  the  human  breast. 
And  if  the  Motto  on  thy  'scutcheon  teach 
With  truth,  The  Magistracy  shows  the  Max 
That  searching  test  thy  public  course  has  stood  ; 
As  will  be  owned  alike  by  bad  and  good, 
Soon  as  the  measuring  of  life's  little  span 
Shall  place  thy  virtues  out  of  Envy's  reach.* 


XL  VI. 

THE  SOMNAMBULIST. 

List,  ye  who  pass  by  Lyulph's  Tower  f 

At  eve  ;  how  softly  then 
Doth  Aira-fbrce,  that  torrent  hoai-se, 

Speak  from  the  woody  glen ! 
Fit  music  for  a  solemn  vale  ! 

And  holier  seems  the  ground 
To  him  who  catches  on  the  gale 
The  spirit  of  a  mournful  tale. 

Embodied  in  the  sound. 

Not  far  from  that  fair  site  whereon 
The  Pleasure-house  is  reared, 

*  See  Note. 

\  A  pleiisure-honse  built  by  the  late  Duke  of  Norfolk  upon 
tlie  bimks  of  Ullswiiter.  Force  is  tlie  word  used  in  the  Lak<' 
District  for  Wiiterfiill. 


THE    SOMNAMBULIST.  223 

As  story  says,  in  antique  days 
A  stern-browed  house  appeared  ; 

Foil  to  a  Jewel  rich  in  light 
There  set,  and  guarded  well ; 

Cage  for  a  Bird  of  plumage  bright, 

Sweet-voiced,  nor  wishing  for  a  flight 
Beyond  her  native  dell. 

To  win  this  bright  Bird  from  her  cage, 

To  make  this  Gem  their  own, 
Came  Barons  bold,  with  store  of  gold, 

And  Knights  of  hiojh  renown; 
But  one  she  prized,  and  only  one  ; 

Sir  Eglamore  was  he  ; 
Full  happy  season,  when  was  known, 
Ye  Dales  and  Hills  !  to  you  alone, 

Their  mutual  loyalty,  — 

Known  chiefly.  Air  a  !  to  thy  glen, 

Thy  brook,  and  bowers  of  holly  ; 
Where  Passion  caught  what  Nature  taught. 

That  all  but  love  is  folly ; 
Where  Fact  with  Fancy  stooped  to  play ; 

Doubt  came  not,  nor  regret, 
To  trouble  hours  that  winged  their  way, 
As  if  through  an  immortal  day 

Whose  sun  could  never  set. 

But  in  old  times  Love  dwelt  not  long 
Sequestered  with  repose  ; 


/ 


224  POEMS    OF    THE   IMAGINATION. 

Best  throve  the  fire  of  chaste  desire. 

Fanned  by  the  breath  of  foes. 
"  A  conquering  lance  is  beauty's  test, 

And  proves  the  Lover  true  "  ; 
So  spake  Sir  Eglamore,  and  pressed 
The  drooping  Emma  to  his  breast, 

And  looked  a  blind  adieu. 

They  parted. — Well  with  him  it  fared 

Through  wide-spread  regions  errant  ; 
A  knight  of  proof  in  love's  behoof. 

The  thirst  of  fame  his  warrant : 
And  she  her  happiness  can  build 

On  woman's  quiet  hours  ; 
Though  faint,  compared  with  spear  and  shield, 
The  solace  beads  and  masses  yield, 

And  needlework  and  flowers. 

Yet  blest  was  Emma  when  she  heard 

Her  Champion's  praise  recounted  ; 
Though  brain  would  swim,  and  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  high  her  blushes  mounted  ; 
Or  when  a  bold  heroic  lay 

She  w  arbliid  from  full  heart ; 
Delightful  blossoms  for  tlie  May 
Of  absence!  but  they  will  not  stay. 

Born  only  to  depart. 

Hope  wanes  with  her,  while  lustre  fills 
Whatever  path  he  chooses  ; 


THE    SOMJVAMBULIST.  225 

As  if  his  orb,  that  owns  no  curh. 

Received  the  liirht  hers  loses. 
He  comes  not  back  ;  an  ampler  space 

Requires  for  nobler  deeds  ; 
He  ranges  on  fi'ora  place  to  place, 
Till  of  his  doings  is  no  trace, 

But  what  her  fancy  breeds. 

His  fame  may  spread,  but  in  the  past 

Her  spirit  finds  its  centre  ; 
Clear  sight  she  has  of  what  he  was, 

And  that  would  now  content  her. 
"  Still  is  he  my  devoted  Knight  ?  " 

The  tear  in  answer  flows  ; 
Month  falls  on  month  with  heavier  wei<'l>t 
Day  sickens  round  her,  and  tho  night 

Is  empty  of  repose. 

In  sleep  she  sometimes  walked  abroad, 

Deep  sighs  with  quick  words  blending, 
Like  that  pale  Queen  whose  hands  are  seen 

With  fancied  spots  contending ; 
But  she  is  innocent  of  blood, — 

The  moon  is  not  more  pure 
That  shines  aloft,  while  through  the  wood 
She  thrids  her  way,  the  sounding  Flood 

Her  melancholy  lure ! 

While  'mid  the  fern-brake  sleeps  the  doe, 

And  owls  alone  are  waking, 
vo\^  IV  15 


SyR  POEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

In  white  arrayed,  glides  on  the  ]\Iaid, 
The  downward  pathway  taking, 

That  leads  her  to  the  torrent's  side 
And  to  a  holly  bower  ; 

By  whom  on  this  still  night  descried  ? 

By  whom  in  that  lone  place  espied  ? 
By  thee,  Sir  Eglamore  1 

A  wandering  Ghost,  so  thinks  tlie  Knight, 

His  coming  step  has  thwarted, 
Beneath  the  boughs  that  heard  their  vows, 

Witiiin  whose  shade  they  parted. 
Hush,  hush,  the  busy  Sleeper  see  ! 

Perplexed  her  fingers  seem, 
As  if  they  from  the  holly-tree 
Green  twigs  would  pluck,  as  rapidly 

Flung  from  her  to  the  stream. 


o 


What  means  the  Spectre  ?     Why  intent 

To  violate  the  Tree, 
Thought  Eglamore,  by  which  I  swore 

Unfading  constancy  ? 
Here  am  I,  and  to-morrow's  sun 

To  her  I  left  shall  prove 
That  bliss  is  ne'er  so  surely  won. 
As  when  a  circuit  has  been  run 

Of  valor,  truth,  and  love. 

So  from  the  spot  whereon  he  stood 
He  moved  with  stealthy  pace ; 


THE    SOMNAMBULIST.  2l!7 

And,  drawing  nigh,  with  his  living  eye, 

He  recognized  the  face  ; 
And  whispers  caught,  and  speeches  small, 

Some  to  the  green-leaved  tree, 
Some  muttered  to  the  torrent-fall ;  — 
"  Roar  on,  and  bring  him  with  thy  call ; 

I  heard,  and  so  may  he  !  " 

Soul-shattered  was  the  Knight,  nor  knew 

If  Emma's  Ghost  it  were, 
Or  boding  Shade,  or  if  the  Maid 

Her  very  self  stood  there. 
He  touched;  what  followed  who  shall  tell  ? 

The  soft  touch  snapped  the  thread 
Of  slumber.  —  shrieking  back  she  fell. 
And  the  Stream  whirled  her  down  the  dell 

Along  its  foaming  bed. 

In  plunged  the  Knight !  —  when  on  firm  ground 

The  rescued  Maiden  lay, 
Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  blissful  light, 

Confusion  passed  away  ; 
She  heard,  ere  to  the  throne  of  grace 

Her  faithful  Spirit  flew, 
His  voice,  —  beheld  his  speaking  face  ; 
And,  dying  from  his  own  embrace, 

She  felt  that  he  was  true. 

So  was  he  reconciled  to  life  : 

Brief  words  may  speak  the  i  est : 


228  I'OEMS    OF    THE    IMAGINATION. 

Within  the  dell  he  built  a  cell, 
And  there  was  Sorrow's  guest ; 

In  hermit's  weeds  repose  he  found, 
From  vain  temptations  free ; 

Beside  the  torrent  dwelling,  —  bound 

By  one  deep,  heart-controlling  sound, 
And  awed  to  piety. 

Wild  stream  of  Aira,  hold  thy  course, 

Nor  fear  memorial  lays. 
Where  clouds  that  spread  in  solemn  shade 

Are  edged  with  golden  rays  ! 
Dear  art  thou  to  the  light  of  heaven. 

Though  minister  of  sorrow  ; 
Sweet  is  thy  voice  at  pensive  even  ; 
And  thou,  in  lovers'  hearts  forgiven, 

Shalt  take  thy  place  with  Yarrow  I 


18S3. 


XLVII. 

TO  CORDELIA    M- 


Hallsteads,  Ullswater. 

Not  in  the  mines  beyond  the  western  main> 

You  say,  Cordelia,  was  the  metal  sought. 

Which  a  fine  skill,  of  Tinlian  growth,  has  wrought 

Into  this  flexible  yet  faitlifiil  Chain  ; 

Nor  is  it  silver  of  romantic  Spain  ; 

Rut  from  our  loved  Ilelvellyn's  depths  was  brought, 


SONNETS.  2:29 

Our  own  domestic  mountain.     Thin?  and  thousiht 
Mix  strangely ;  trifles  light,  and  partly  vain, 
Can  prop,  as  you  have  learnt,  our  nobler  being : 
Yes,  Lady,  while  about  your  neck  is  wound 
(Your  casual  glance  oft  meeting)  this  bright  cord, 
What  witchery,  for  pure  gifts  of  inward  seeing. 
Lurks  in  it,  Memory's  Helper,  Fancy's  Lord, 
For  precious  trembhngs  m  your  bosom  found  ! 


XLVIII. 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 

To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 

While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 

Wliich  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon ; 

Pleased  i-ather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 

The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 

Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse : 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way, 

^Vhate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 

The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 

Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND 
REFLECTION. 


I. 

EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY. 

"  Why,  Willliam,  on  that  old  gray  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away  ? 

"  Where  are  your  books  ? — that  light  bequeathed 
To  Beings  else  forlorn  and  blind ! 
Up  !  up  !  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

"You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Earth, 
As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you  ; 
As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 
And  none  had  lived  before  you  I  " 


iiXPOSIUIvATION    AND    KEPJLY.  231 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake, 
And  thus  I  made  reply  :  — 

"  The  eye,  —  it  cannot  choose  but  see  ; 
We  cannot  bid  the  year  be  still  ; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
Against  or  with  our  will. 


-o" 


"  Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress  ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"  Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  for  ever  speaking. 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking:  ? 

"  Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone. 

Conversing  as  I  may, 

I  sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone. 

And  dream  my  time  away." 


1798. 


232    POEJIS  OF  SENTIMKXT  AND  REFLICC TIOW. 

II. 
THE  TABLES  TURNED. 

AH   KVENING   SCEKE  ON   THE   SAJIE  SUBJECT. 

Up  !  up  !  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books, 
Or  surely  you  '11  grow  double  : 
Up  !  up  !  my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks  ; 
"Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 

Through  all  the  long,  green  fields  has  spread 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 


Books  !  't  is  a  dull  and  endless  strife  : 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet. 
How  sweet  his  music  !  on  my  life, 
There  's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark  !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings ! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher : 
Come  forth  into  the  liglit  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  Teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth. 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless,  — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Tiuth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 


LINES    \^-RITTEN    IN    EARLY    SPRING.       233 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings ; 
Our  meddling  intellect 

Misshapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things    — 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Ait ; 
Close  up  those  barren  leaves  ; 
Come  forth,  and  bruig  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 

1798 


ni. 

LINES   WRITTEN   IN  EARLY   SPRING. 

[  HEARD  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
While  in  a  gi'ove  I  sat  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran  ; 
And  much  it  gi-ieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 


!^34   POEMS  OF  SKXTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  <rreen  bower. 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreatlis  ; 
And  't  is  my  faith  that  eveiy  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  playe'l. 
Their  thoushts  I  cannot  measure  :  — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made, 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 
To  catch  the  breezy  air  ; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan. 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 

.798 


IV. 

A   CHARACTER. 


I  MAUVKL  how  Nature  could  ever  find  space 
For  so  many  strange  contrasts  in  one  human  face : 
There  's  thought  and  no  thought,  and  there 's  pale- 
ness and  bloom, 
And  bustle  and  sluggishness,  pleasure  and  gloom. 


TO    MY    SISTER.  235 

There  's  weakness,  and  strength  both  redundant 

and  vain  ; 
Such  strength  as,  if  ever  affliction  and  pain 
Could  pierce  through  a  temper  that 's  soft  to  disease, 
Would  be  rational  peace,  —  a  philosopher's  ease. 

There 's  indifference,  alike  when  he  fails  or  succeeds, 
And  attention  full  ten  times  as  much  as  there  needs ; 
Pride  where  there  's  no  envy,  there  's  so  much  of 

joy; 

And  mildness,  and  spirit  both  forward  and  cov. 

There  's  freedom,  and  sometimes  a  diffident  stare 
Of  shame  scarcely  seeming  to  know  that  she 's  there ; 
There 's  virtue,  the  title  it  surely  may  claim, 
Yet  wants  heaven  kaows  what  to  be  worthy  the  naine. 

This  picture  from  nature  may  seem  to  depart, 
Yet  the  Man  would  at  once  run  away  with  your 

heart ; 
And  I  for  five  centuries  right  gladly  would  be 
Srch  an  odd,  such  a  kind,  happy  creature  as  he. 

1800. 


V. 

TO  MY   SISTER. 


Tt  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March  : 
Each  minute  sweeter  than  before 


236    POEMS   OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLT.CTIONu 

The  redbreast  sings  from  the  tall  larch 
That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air, 
"Wliich  seems  a  sense  of  joj  to  yield 
To  the  bare  trees,  and  mountains  bare, 
And  grass  in  the  green  field. 

My  sister  !  ('t  is  a  wish  of  mine,) 
Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done. 
Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign  ; 
Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you  ;  —  and,  pray, 
Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress  ; 
And  bring  no  book :  for  this  one  day 
We  '11  give  to  idleness. 

No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 
Our  living  calendar : 
We  from  to-day,  my  Friend,  will  date 
The  opening  of  the  year. 

Love,  now  a  universal  birth. 
From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing. 
From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth 
—  It  is  the  hour  of  feelin;;. 


■o- 


One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 
Than  years  of  toiling  reason  : 


SIMON    LEE.  237 

Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 
The  spirit  of  the  season. 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make, 
"Which  they  shall  long  obey : 
We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 
Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 
About,  below,  above, 
We  '11  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls  : 
They  shall  be  tuned  to  love. 

Then  come,  my  Sister  !  come,  I  pray. 
With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dresa  , 
And  bring  no  book  :  for  this  one  day 
We  '11  give  to  idleness. 

1798. 


VI. 

SBION  LEE, 
THE    OLD    huntsman: 

WITH   AN  INCIDENT   IN  WHICH  HE  WAS   CONCESNBD. 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor  Hall. 
An  old  Man  dwells,  a  little  man,  — 
'T  is  said  he  once  was  tall. 


238    POEJIS  Of  SENTIHEXT  AND  REFLECIIOX 

Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 
A  running  huntsman  merry  ; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee 

When  Echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days,  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage  ; 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind  ; 

And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done, 

He  reeled,  and  was  stone-blind. 

And  still  there  's  something  in  the  world 

At  which  his  heart  rejoices  ; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out. 

He  dearly  loves  their  voices  ! 

But  0  the  heavy  change  !  —  bereft 

Of  health,  strength,  friends,  and  kindred,  see  I 

Old  Simon  to  l^he  world  is  left 

In  liveried  poverty. 

His  Master 's  dead,  —  and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor  ; 

Men,  dogs,  and  hoi-ses,  all  are  dead,  — 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 


SIMON    LEE. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick ; 
His  body,  dwindled  and  awry, 
Rests  upon  ankles  swoln  and  thick ; 
His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 
One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one : 
His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 
Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall. 
Upon  the  village  Common. 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay. 
Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 
A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 
Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 
This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 
Inclosed  when  he  was  stronger  ; 
But  what  to  them  avails  the  land 
Which  he  can  till  no  longer  ? 

Oft,  working  by  her  Husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do ; 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  ckill 

From  labor  could  not  wean  them, 

'T  is  little,  very  little,  all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  hfe  has  he  in  store, 
As  he  to  you  will  tell, 
For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 
Do  his  weak  ankles  swell. 


239 


fi-iO   I'OEila  OF  sEMJJIEXT  AJSD  REFLECTION, 

My  gentle  Reader,  I  perceive. 
How  patiently  you  've  waited, 
And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 
Some  tale  will  be  related. 

0  Reader !  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

0  gentle  Reader !  you  would  find 

A  tale  in  everything. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short, 

And  you  must  kindly  take  it : 

It  is  no  tale  ;  but,  should  you  think, 

Perhaps  a  tale  you  '11  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 
This  old  Man  doing  all  he  could 
To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 
A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 
The  mattock  tottered  in  his  hand  ; 
So  vain  was  his  endeavor. 
That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 
lie  minrht  have  worked  for  ever. 


o 


"  You  're  overtasked,  good  Siinou  Lee, 

Give  me  your  tool,"  to  him  I  said ; 

And  at  the  woi'd,  right  gladly  he 

Received  my  proffered  aid. 

I  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 

The  tangled  root  I  severed. 

At  which  the  poor  old  Man  so  long 

And  vainly  had  endeavored. 


■WRITTEN    IN    GERMANY.  24] 

The  tears  into  bis  eyes  were  brougl)t> 
Aud  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run 
So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 
—  I  've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning  ; 
Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

1798. 


VII. 

WRITTEN  IN  GERMANY, 

ON  ONE  OF  THE  COLDEST  DAYS  OF  THE  CENTURY. 

The  Reader  must  be  apprised,  that  the  stoves  in  North  Ger- 
many generally  have  the  impression  of  a  galloping  horse  npon 
them,  this  being  part  of  the  Brunswick  Arms. 

A  PLAGUE  On  your  languages,  Gei-man  and  Noise  ! 
Let  me  have  the  song  of  the  kettle  ; 
And  the  tongs  and  the  poker,  instead  of  that  horse 
That  gallops  away  with  such  fury  and  force 
On  this  dreary  dull  plate  of  black  metal. 

See  that  Fly,  —  a  disconsolate  creature  !  perhapg 

A  child  of  the  field  or  the  grove  ; 

And,  sorrj  for  him  !  the  dull,  treacherous  heat 

vot.    IV.  16 


242  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Has  seduced  the  poor  fool  from  his  winter  retreat, 
And  he  creeps  to  the  edge  of  my  stove. 

Alas !  how  he  fumbles  about  the  domains 
"Which  this  comfortless  oven  environ  ! 
He  cannot  find  out  in  what  track  he  must  crawl, 
Now  back  to  the  tiles,  then  in  search  of  the  wall, 
And  now  on  the  brink  of  the  iron. 

Stock-still  there  he  stands,  like  a  traveller  be- 

mazed ! 
The  best  of  his  skill  he  has  tried  ; 
His  feelers,  methinks,  I  can  see  him  put  forth 
To  the  east  and  the  west,  to  the  south  and  the 

north, 
But  he  finds  neither  guide-post  nor  guide. 

His  spindles  sink  under  him,  foot,  leg,  and  thigh  I 

His  eyesight  and  hearing  are  lost ; 

Between  life  and   death    his   blood  freezes    and 

thaws ; 
And  his  two  pretty  pinions  of  blue  dusky  gauze 
Are  glued  to  his  sides  by  the  frost. 

No  brother,  no  mate  has  he  near  him,  —  while 
Can  draw  warmth  from  the  cheek  of  my  Love ; 
As  blest  and  as  glad,  in  this  desoUite  gloom. 
As  if  green  summer  grass  were  tlie  floor  of  mj 

room, 
And  woodltines  were  hanging  above. 


A  poet's  epitaph.  243 

Yet,  God   is   my   witness,  thou   small,  helpless 

Thing ! 
Thy  life  I  would  gladly  sustain 
Till  summer  come  up  from  the  south,  and,  with 

crowds 
Of  thy  brethren,  a  march    thou  shouldst  sound 

through  the  clouds. 
And  back  to  the  forests  again  ! 

1799. 


VIII. 

A  POET'S   EPITAPH. 

Art  thou  a  Statist,  in  the  van 
Of  public  conflicts  trained  and  bred? 
First  learn  to  love  one  living  man  ; 
TJien  mayst  thou  think  upon  the  dead. 

A  Lawyer  art  thou  ?  —  draw  not  nigh  ! 
Go,  carry  to  some  fitter  place 
The  keenness  of  that  practised  eye, 
The  hardness  of  that  sallow  face. 

Art  thou  a  Man  of  purple  cheer  ? 
A  rosy  Man,  right  plump  to  see  ? 
Approach  ;  yet.  Doctor,  not  too  near : 
This  grave  no  cushion  is  for  thee. 


244    I'OEMS   OF    SENTIMENT  AND  REELECTION. 

Or  art  thou  one  of  g.allant  prul'^, 
A  Soldier  and  no  man  of  chaff? 
"Welcome  !  —  but  lay  thy  sword  aside, 
And  lean  upon  a  peasant's  staff. 

Physician  art  thou  ?  —  one  all  eyes, 
Philosopher  !  —  a  fingering  slave, 
One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 
Upon  his  mother's  grave  ? 

Wrapt  closely  in  thy  sensual  fleece, 
O  turn  aside,  —  and  take,  I  pray, 
That  he  below  may  rest  in  peace, 
Thy  ever-dwindling  soul  away  ! 

A  Moralist  perchance  appears  ; 
Led,  Heaven  knows  how  !  to  this  poor  sod  • 
And  he  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears  ; 
Himself  his  world,  and  his  own  God ; 

One  to  whose  smooth-rubbed  soul  can  cling 
Nor  form,  nor  feeling,  great  or  small ; 
A  reasoning,  self-sufficing  thing. 
An  intellectual  All-in-all ! 

Shut  close  the  door  ;  press  down  the  lalch  j 
Sleep  in  thy  intellectual  crust ; 
Nor  lose  ten  tickings  of  thy  watch 
Near  this  unprofitable  dust. 


A  poet's  epitaph.  '^l ' 

But  who  is  he,  with  modest  looks, 
And  clad  in  homely  russet-brown  ? 
He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noonday  grove ; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed  ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, 
The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye. 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

But  he  is  weak ;  both  Man  and  Boy, 
Hath  been  an  idler  in  the  land, 
Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 
The  things  which  others  understand. 

Come  hither  in  thy  hour  of  strength  ; 

Come,  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave ! 
Here  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length  ; 
Or  build  thy  house,  upon  this  grave. 

1799 


246    POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

IX. 

TO   THE  DAISY. 

Bright  Flower!  whose  home  is  everywhere, 

Bold  in  maternal  Nature's  care, 

And  all  the  long  year  through,  the  heir 

Ot"  joy  and  sorrow,  — 
Methinks  that  there  abides  in  thee 
Some  concord  with  humanity, 
Given  to  no  other  flower  I  see 

The  forest  thorough  ! 

Is  it  that  Man  is  soon  deprest  ? 

A  thoughtless  Thing !  who,  once  unblest, 

Does  little  on  his  memory  rest, 

Or  on  his  reason, 
And  thou  wouldst  teach  him  how  to  find 
A  slielter  under  every  wind, 
A  hope  for  times  that  are  unkind 

And  every  season  ? 

Thou  wander'st  the  wide  world  about, 
Unchecked  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt, 
With  friends  to  greet  thee,  or  without, 

Yet  pleased  and  willing; 
Meek,  yielding  to  the  occasion's  call, 
And  all  things  suffering  from  all, 
Tiiy  fimction  apostolical 

In  peace  fulfilling. 

1803 


MATTHEW.  247 


MATTHEW. 

In  the  School  of is  a  tablet,  on  wliich  are  inscribed, 

in  gilt  letters,  tlie  names  of  the  several  persons  who  have  been 
Schoolmasters  there  shice  the  foundation  of  the  School,  with 
the  time  at  which  they  entered  upon  and  quitted  then*  office. 
Opposite  to  one  of  those  names  the  Author  wrote  the  follow- 
ing lines. 

If  Nature,  for  a  favorite  child, 
In  thee  hath  tempered  so  her  clay, 
That  every  hour  thy  heart  runs  wild, 
Yet  never  once  doth  go  astray, 

Read  o'er  these  lines  ;  and  then  review 
This  tablet,  that  thus  humbly  rears. 
In  such  diversity  of  hue, 
Its  history  of  two  hundred  years. 

» 
When  through  this  little  wreck  of  fame. 
Cipher  and  syllable  !  thine  eye 
Has  travelled  down  to  Matthew's  name, 
Pause  with  no  common  sympathy. 

And,  if  a  sleeping  tear  should  wake, 
Then  be  it  neither  checked  nor  stayed 
For  Matthew  a  request  I  make 
Which  for  himself  he  had  not  made. 

Poor  Mattliew,  all  his  frolics  o'er, 
Is  silent  as  a  standing  pool ; 


248    POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Far  from  the  cliimney's  merry  rom-, 
A.nd  murmur  of  the  vilhage  school. 

The  sighs  which  Matthew  heaved  were  sighs 
Of  one  tired  out  with  fun  and  madness; 
The  tears  which  came  to  Matthew's  eyes 
Were  tears  of  light,  the  dew  of  gladness. 

Yet,  sometimes,  when  the  secret  cup 
Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  drank  it  up, — 
He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound. 

Thou  Soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould  ! 
Thou  happy  Soul !  and  can  it  be 
That  these  two  words  of  glittering  gold 
Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  ? 

1799. 


XI. 

THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun  ; 
And  Matthew  stopfied,  he  looked,  and  said, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done ! " 

A  village  schoolmj'ster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray  ; 


THE    TWO    APRIL    MORNINGS.  242 

As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass. 
And  by  the  steaming  rills, 
We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hills. 

"  Our  work,"  said  I,  "  was  well  begun  ; 
Then,  from  thy  breast,  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun. 
So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?  " 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop ; 
And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 
To  me  he  made  reply  : 

"Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this  which  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

"  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 
Such  colors,  and  no  other, 
"Were  in  the  sky,  that  April  morn, 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 

"  With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 


250   POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND   REFLECTION. 

And,  to  the  churchyard  come,  stoiii)ed  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

"  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 
And  then  she  sang;  —  she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

"  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay  ; 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more, 
For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

"  And,  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met. 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew, 
A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

**  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare ; 
Her  brow  wsvs  smooth  and  white : 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 
It  was  a  pure  delight ! 

"No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free ; 
She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 

"  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine  ; 


THE    FOUNTAIN.  251 

( 

I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again : 
And  did  not  wish  her  mine !  " 

Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now, 
Methinks,  I  see  him  stand, 
As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 

1799. 


XII. 
THE  FOUNTAIN. 

A   CONVERSATION. 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  youngs 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 
Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke, 
And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

"  Now,  Matthew!"  said  I,  "let  us  match 
This  water's  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch 
That  suits  a  summer's  noon  ; 


252  POEMS  OF  SEXXniEXT  AXD   UlCrL'.XTIOX. 

"  Or  of  the  churcli-clock  and  the  chiiues 
Sing  here,  beneath  the  shade. 
That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes) 
Which  you  last  April  made  ! " 

In  silance  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
The  gray -haired  man  of  glee  : 

"  No  check,  no  stay,  this  Streamlet  fears; 
How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'T  will  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

*^  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

"  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears. 
My  heart  is  idly  stirred. 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 
Which  in  those  days  1  heard. 

"  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  • 
And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
^lourns  less  for  what  ase  takes  away. 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 


253 


^The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 
The  lark  above  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

"  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free  : 

"  But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws  ; 
And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"  ISIy  days,  my  Friend,  are  almost  gone  ; 
My  life  has  been  approved, 
And  many  love  me ;  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  ! 
I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  liappy  plains  ; 


254  I'OKMS  01'  SKNTIMKNT  AND  KEFLKCTION. 

"  And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead, 
I  'II  be  a  son  to  thee ! " 
At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 
''  Alas  !  that  cannot  be." 

"We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side ; 
And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide  ; 
And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock, 
He  sang  those  wdtty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church-clock. 
And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


1769. 


XIII. 

PERSONAL  TALK. 

I. 

I  Ail  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight 

To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk,  — 

Of  friends,  vviio  live  within  an  easy  walk, 

Or  neighbors,  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight : 

And,  for  my  chance-acquaintanct',  ladies  bright, 

Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the  stalk. 

These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  Forms,  with  clialk 


PERSONAL    TALK.  255 

pHinted  ou  rich  men's  floors,  for  one  feast-night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire  ; 
To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim. 
In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 
And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame, 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 

n. 

"  Yet  life,"  you  say,  "  is  life  ;  we  have  seen  and  see, 
And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe  ; 
And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 
The  languid  mind  into  activity. 
Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and  glee, 
Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe." 
Even  be  it  so :  yet  still  among  your  tribe, 
Our  daily  world's  true  Worldlings,  rank  not  me ! 
Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ;  their  world  lies 
More  justly  balanced  ;  partly  at  their  feet. 
And  part  far  from  them  :  —  sweetest  melodies 
Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet ; 
Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes, 
He  is  a  Slave  ;  the  meanest  we  can  meet  ! 

ni. 

Wings  have  we,  —  and  as  far  as  we  can  go 
We  may  find  pleasure:  wilderness  and  woixi. 
Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 
iV"hich  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 


256   POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Dreams,  books,  are  each  a  world  ;  and  books,  we 

know, 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good  : 
Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood. 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous  store, 
flatter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am, 
Tu  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear  ; 
Two  shall  be  named,  preeminently  dear,  — 
The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor, 
And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  Lamb. 

IV. 

Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 
Great  gains  are  mine  ;  for  thus  I  live  remote 
From  evil-speaking;  rancor,  never  sought, 
Comes  to  me  not ;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 
Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have  I 
Smooth  passions,  smooth  discoui'ses,  and  joyous 

thought : 
And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 
Rocks  in  its  harbor,  lodging  peaceable. 
Blessings  be  with  them,  and  eternal  praise. 
Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares,  — 
Tiie  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays^! 
Oh  !  might  my  name  be  numbered  amonjr  theirs, 
I'hcn  gladly  would  I  end  ray  mortal  days. 


TO    THE    SFADE    OF    A   FRIEND.  257 

XIV. 

iJ.i^USTRATED  BOOKS  AKD   NEWSPAPEli5?. 

Discourse  was  deemed  Man's  noblest  attribute, 
And  written  words  the  glory  of  his  hand  ; 
Then  followed  Printing  with  enlarged  command 
For  thought,  —  dominion  vast  and  absolute 
For  spreading  truth,  and  making  love  expand. 
Now  prose  and  verse  sunk  into  disrepute 
Must  lackey  a  dumb  Art  that  best  can  suit 
The  taste  of  this  once-intellectual  Land. 
A  backward  movement  surely  have  we  here 
From  manhood,  back  to  childhood ;  for  tJie  age, 
Back  towards  caverned  life's  first  rude  caree". 
Avaunt  this  vile  abuse  of  pictured  page  ! 
Must  eyes  be  all  in  all,  the  tongue  and  ear 
Nothing  ?     Heaven  keep  us  from  a  lowei  stage  !  " 

1846 


XV. 

TO   THE   SPADE   OF   A  FRIEND 

(an   AGIUCULTURIST.) 

Composed  while  we  were  laboring  together  in  liis  pleasure 

gi'oiuid. 

Spade  !  with  which  Wilkinson  hath  tilled  his  lands, 
And  shaped  these  pleasant  walks  by  Emont's  side, 

VOL.   IV.  17 


258  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Thou  art  a  tool  of  honor  in  my  hands , 

I  press  thee,  througti  the  yielding  soil,  with  prida 

Rare  master  has  it  been  thy  lot  to  know  ; 
Lons  hast  Thou  served  a  man  to  rea«on  true, 
Whose  life  combines  the  best  of  high  and  low. 
The  laboring  many  and  the  resting  few ; 

Health,  meekness,  ardor,  quietness  secure, 
And  industry  of  body  and  of  mind  ; 
And  elegant  enjoyments,  that  are  pure 
As  nature  is,  —  too  pure  to  be  refined. 

Here  often  hast  thou  heard  the  Poet  sinsr 
In  concord  with  his  river  murmuring  by 
Or  in  some  silent  field,  while  timid  surinff 
Is  yet  uncheered  by  other  minstrelsy. 

Who  shall  inherit  thee  when  death  has  laid 
Low  in  the  darksome  cell  thine  own  dear  lord? 
That  man  will  have  a  trophy,  humble  Spade! 
A  trophy  nobler  than  a  conqueror's  sword. 

If  he  be  one  that  feels,  with  skill  to  part 
False  praise  from  true,  or  greater  from  the  less. 
Thee  will  he  welcome  to  his  hand  and  heart, 
Thou  monument  of  peaceful  haj)piness! 

He  will  not  dread  with  thee  a  toilsome  day,  — 
Tliee,  his  loved  ser\'ant,  his  inspiring  mate  ' 


A   NIGHT   THOUGHT.  259 

And  when  thou  art  past  service,  worn  away, 
No  dull  oblivious  nook  shall  hide  thy  fate. 

His  thrift  thy  uselessness  will  never  scorn ; 
An  heir-loom  in  his  cottage  wilt  thou  be  ;  — 
High  will  he  hang  thee  up,  well  pleased  to  adorn 
His  rustic  chimney  with  the  last  of  thee ! 

1804 


XVI. 

A  NIGHT   THOUGHT. 

Lo  !  where  the  Moon  along  the  sky 
Sails  with  her  happy  destiny  ; 
Oft  is  she  hid  from  mortal  eye, 

Or  dimly  seen, 
But  when  the  clouds  asunder  fly, 

How  bright  her  mien  ! 

Far  diflTerent  we,  —  a  froward  race ; 
Thousands,  though  rich  in  Fortune's  grace, 
With  cherished  sullenness  of  pace 

Their  way  pursue, 
Ingi-ates  that  wear  a  smileless  face 

The  whole  year  through. 

If  kindred  humors  e'er  would  make 
My  spirit  droop  for  drooping's  sake, 


260  rOEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  UEFLECTION. 

From  Fancy  following  in  thy  wake. 

Bright  ship  of  heaven ! 
A  counter  impulse  let  me  take. 

And  be  forgiven. 


XVII. 
INCIDENT 

CHAn&CrERISTIC  OF  A   FAVORITE  DOO. 

On  V.'o  morning  rounds,  the  Master 

Goes  to  learn  how  all  things  fare  ; 

Searches  pasture  after  pasture, 

Sheep  and  cattle  eyes  with  care ; 

And,  for  silence  or  for  talk, 

He  hath  comrades  in  his  walk  ; 

Four  dogs,  each  pair  of  different  breed, 

Distinguished  two  for  scent,  and  two  for  speed. 

See  a  hare  before  him  started ! 
Off  they  fly  in  earnest  chase ; 
Every  dog  is  eager-hearted, 
All  the  four  are  in  the  race : 
And  the  hare  whom  they  pursue 
Knows  from  instinct  what  to  do ; 
Her  liope  is  near :  no  turn  she  makes ; 
But,  like  an  arrow,  to  the  river  takes. 


INCIDENT.  261 

Deep  the  river  was,  and  crusted 

Thinly  by  a  one  night's  frost ; 

But  the  nimble  hare  hath  trusted 

To  the  ice,  and  safely  crossed ; 

She  hath  crossed,  and  without  heed 

All  are  following  at  full  speed, 

When,  lo  !  the  ice,  so  thinly  spread, 

Breaks — and  the  greyhound,  Dart,  is  overhead ! 

Better  fate  have  Prince  and  Swallow,  — 

See  them  cleaving  to  the  sport ! 

Mdsic  has  no  heart  to  follow, 

Little  Music,  she  stops  short. 

She  hath  neither  wish  nor  heart, 

Hers  is  now  another  part : 

A  loving  creature  she,  and  brave, 

And  fondly  strives  her  struggling  friend  to  save. 

From  the  brink  her  paws  she  stretches, 

Vei*y  hands  as  you  would  say ! 

And  afflicting  moans  she  fetches, 

As  he  breaks  the  ice  away. 

For  herself  she  has  no  fears,  — 

Him  alone  she  sees  and  hears,  — 

Makes  efforts  with  complainings  ;  nor  gives  o  er, 

Until  her  fellow  sinks  to  reappear  no  more. 

1806. 


262   POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTIOlf. 

XVIII. 

TRIBUTE 

TO    THE    MEMORY    OF   THE    SAME    DOG. 

Lie  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth, 

Beneath  a  covering  of  the  common  earth  ! 

It  is  not  from  unwillingness  to  praise. 

Or  want  of  love,  that  here  no  stone  we  raise ; 

More  thou  deserv'st;  but  this  man  gives  to  man, 

Brother  to  brother,  this  is  all  we  can. 

Yet  they  to  whom  thy  virtues  made  thee  dear 

Shall  find  thee  through  all  changes  of  the  year : 

Tins  oak  points  out  thy  grave  ;  the  silent  tree 

Will  gladly  stand  a  monument  to  thee. 

We  grieved  for  thee,  and  wished  thy  end  were 
past; 
And  willingly  have  laid  thee  here  at  last : 
For  thou  hadst  lived  till  everything  that  cheers 
In  thee  had  yielded  to  the  weight  of  years ; 
Extreme  old  age  had  wasted  thee  away. 
And  left  thee  but  a  glimmering  of  the  day  ; 
Thy  ears  were  deaf,  and  feeble  were  thy  knees, — 
I  saw  thee  stagger  in  the  summer  breeze, 
Too  weak  to  stiind  against  its  sportive  breath, 
Ajid  ready  for  the  gentlest  stroke  of  death. 
It  came,  and  we  were  glad  :  yet  tears  were  shed ; 
Both  man  and  woman  wept  when  thou  wert  dead; 


FIDELITT.  263 

Not  only  for  a  tliousand  tlioughts  that  were, 

Old  household  thoughts,  in  which  thou  hadst  thy 

share ; 
But  for  some  precious  boons  vouchsafed  to  thee, 
Found  scarcely  anywhere  in  like  degree 
For  love,  that  comes  wherever  life  and  sense 
Are  given  by  God,  in  thee  was  most  inten&e ; 
A  chain  of  heart,  a  feeling  of  the  mind, 
A  tender  sympathy,  which  did  thee  bind 
Not  only  to  us  Men,  but  to  thy  Kind : 
Yea,  for  thy  fellow-brutes  in  tliee  we  saw 
A  soul  of  love,  love's  intellectual  law  :  — 
Hence,  if  we  wept,  it  was  not  done  in  shame  ; 
Our  tears  from  passion  and  from  reason  came, 
And  therefore  shalt  thou  be  an  honored  name  ! 

1805. 


XIX. 

FIDELITY. 


A  BARKING  sound  the  Shepherd  hears, 

A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox  ; 

He  halts,  —  and  searches  with  his  eyes 

Among  the  scattered  rocks  : 

And  now  at  distance  can  discern 

A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern  ; 

And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen, 

Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 


264    POEMS  OF  SENTIMKXT  AND  KEFLECTION. 

The  Dog  is  not  of  mountain  ])reed  ; 
Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy ; 
With  something,  as  the  Shepherd  thinks, 
Unusual  in  its  cry  : 
Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight 
All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height ; 
Nor  shout  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear ; 
What  is  the  creature  doing  here  ? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 

That  keeps  till  June  December's  snows ; 

A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarn  *  below  ! 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 

Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 

Pathway,  or  cultivated  land,  — 

From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  tish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer ; 
The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak, 
In  symphony  austere  ; 
Thither  the  rainbow  comes,  the  cloud, 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ; 
And  sunbeams;  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past ; 
But  that  enormous  barrier  holds  it  fast. 


*  Tarn  is  a  small  Here  or  Lake,  mostly  hign  up  in  the 
miuntnins. 


FIDELITY.  2G5 

Noc  free  from  boding  thoughts,  awhile 
The  Shepherd  stood  ;  tlien  makes  his  way 
O'er  rocks  and  stones,  following  the  Dog 
As  quickly  as  he  may  ; 
Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground. 
The  appalled  Discoverer  with  a  sigh 
Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 

The  Man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear ! 

At  length  upon  the  Shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear : 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came; 

Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 

On  which  the  Traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake 

This  lamentable  tale  I  tell ! 

A  lasting  monument  of  words 

This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  Dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh, 

Repeating  the  same  timid  cry, 

This  Dog  had  been  through  three  months'  space 

A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain  that,  since  the  day 
When  this  ill-fated  Traveller  died, 
The  Dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 
Or  by  his  master's  side  : 


2G6   POEMS   OF  SEXTI.MENT  AND  REI-LECTION 

How  nourished  here  throufrh  such  lonjr  time 
He  knows  who  gave  that  love  subhme,  " 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feehng,  great 
Above  all  human  estimate  ! 

18ft8. 


XX. 

ODE  TO  DUTY. 


"Jam  non  consilio  bonus,  sed  mote  eo  perductns,  ut  noD 
tantam  rect6  facere  possim,  sed  nisi  rect^  fucere  non  possim." 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  1 

0  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love, 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe, 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 

And  calm'st  the  wearv  strife  of  frail  humanity  I 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth. 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot ; 
U''ho  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power  !  around 
them  cast. 


ODE    TO    DUTY.  267 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supphcate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Rle  this  unchartered  freedom  tires  ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
A.S  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face; 


^GS   POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  , 
Tlion  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Tliee,  are 
fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 

0,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live  .' 

1805 


XXI. 

CHARACTETl   OF   THE   HAPPY   WARRIOR. 

Who  is  the  happy  Wari-ior  ?     Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 
—  Tt  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  tlie  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought : 
Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright: 
Wlio.  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
\y\\;\l  knowl(!(lge  can  perform,  is  diligi'iit  lo  learn ; 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR.     269 

A-bifles  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there. 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care : 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  Avith  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives  : 
By  objfM^ts,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  fnt^ling,  rendered  more  compassionate  ; 
Is  placable,  —  because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice  ; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 
As  tempted  m.ore  ;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress ; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

—  'T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason  ;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends  ; 
Wiience,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  res* 
He  labors  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows : 

—  W  ho,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command. 
Rises  by  open  means  ;  and  there  will  stand 
3n  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 

And  in  himself  possess  bis  owa  desire  : 
Who  comprehends  his  t^^st,  and  to  the  same 


270    POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  ; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state ; 

"Whom  they  must  follow,  on  whose  head  must  tall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  iu  the  common  strife. 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind. 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired  ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 

Iu  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw  ; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed. 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need : 

—  lie  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence. 

Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes; 

Sweet  images !  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  a[)prove ; 

More  brave  f(jr  tliis,  that  he  hath  much  to  love:  — 

'T  is,  finally,  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high, 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 

Or  left  unthought  of  in  obscurity, — 

Who,  with  a  towai'd  or  untoward  lot, 

Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 


THE    rOnCE    OF    PKAYER.  271 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
T\''here  what  he  most  cloth  value  must  be  won : 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
rfor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  ; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 
For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead,  unprofitable  name. 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  causr  : 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause  — 
This  is  the  happy  Warrior ;  this  is  he 
That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

1806. 


XXII. 
THE  FORCE   OF  PRAYER; 
OR,   THE   FOUNDING    OF    BOLTON   PRIORT. 

A  TRADITON. 

"  iXlliat  is  goob  for  a  bootless  bene '? " 

With  these  dark  words  begins  my  Tale  ; 

And  their  meaning  is,  whence  can  comfort  spring 

When  Prayer  is  of  no  avail  ? 

*  See  the  White  Doe  of  Kylstoiie 


i~-2   POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  RErLECIION 

"  tUl)iU  is  goob  for  a  bootless  bcuc  ?  " 

The  Falconer  to  the  Lady  said  ; 

And  she  made  answer,  "Endless  sorrov I  ' 

For  she  knew  that  her  Son  was  dead. 

She  knew  it  by  the  Falconer's  words, 
And  from  the  look  of  the  Falconer's  eye; 
And  from  the  love  wliich  was  in  her  soui 
For  her  youthful  Romilly. 

—  Young  Romilly  through  Barden  woods 

Is  ran^ino;  hisrh  and  low  ; 

And  holds  a  greyhound  in  a  leash, 

To  let  slip  upon  buck  or  doe. 

The  pair  have  reached  that  fearful  chasm. 
How  tempting  to  bestride  ! 
For  lordly  "Wharf  is  there  pent  in 
With  rocks  on  either  side. 

The  striding-place  is  called  The  Stkid, 
A  name  which  it  took  of  yore : 
A  tliousand  years  hath  it  borne  that  namoj 
And  shall  a  thousand  more. 

And  hither  is  young  Romilly  come, 
And  what  may  now  forbid 
That  he,  perhaps  for  the  hundredth  time, 
Shall  bound  across  The  Stuid  ? 


THE   FORCK    OF   PRATKR.  273 

He  sprang  iu  glee,  —  for  what  cared  he 

That  the  river  was  strong,  and  the  rocks    v/era 

steep  ?  — 
But  the  greyhound  in  the  leash  hung  back, 
And  checked  him  in  his  leap. 

The  Boy  is  in  the  arms  of  Wharf, 
And  strangled  by  a  merciless  force  ; 
For  never  more  was  young  Romilly  sec* 
Till  he  rose  a  lifeless  corse. 

New  there  is  stillness  in  the  vale, 
Anrf  lorg,  unspeaking  sorrow  : 
Wharf  shall  be  to  pitying  hearts 
A  name  more  sad  than  Yarrow. 

If  for  a  lover  the  Lady  wept, 

A  solace  she  might  borrow 

From  death,  and  from  the  passion  of  death :  — 

Old  Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 

She  weeps  not  for  the  wedding-day 
Which  was  to  be  to-morrovv  : 
Her  hope  was  a  further-looking  hope, 
And  hers  is  a  mother's  sorrow. 

He  was  a  tree  that  stood  alone. 
And  proudly  did  its  branches  wave  ; 
Ai;d  the  root  of  this  delightful  tree 
Was  in  her  husband's  grave  ! 

VOL.    IV.  18 


274  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Long,  Ions:  in  darkness  did  she  sit, 
And  lier  first  words  were,  "  Let  there  b«j 
In  Bolton,  on  the  field  of  Wharf, 
A  stately  Priory ! " 

The  stately  Priory  was  reared ; 
And  Wharf,  as  he  moved  along, 
To  matins  joined  a  mournful  voice, 
Nor  failed  at  even-song. 

And  the  Lady  prayed  in  heaviness 
That  looked  not  for  relief ! 
But  slowly  did  her  succor  come, 
And  a  patience  to  her  grief. 

O,  there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart 
That  shall  lack  a  timely  end, 
If  but  to  God  we  turn,  and  ask 
Of  Him  to  be  our  friend  I 


1808. 


XXIII. 

A  FACT,  AND  AN  IMAGINATION; 

CK     CANUTE    AND    ALFRED,  ON    TITF.    SKA-siIORE 

TiiK  Danish  Conqueror,  on  his  royal  chair, 
Mustering  a  face  of  haughty  sovereignty. 
To  aid  a  fovert  purpose,  cried:  "0  ye 


A   FACT    AND    AN    IMAG-'NATION.  27.'- 

A-pproacliing  "Waters  of  the  deep,  tliat  share 
With  this  green  isle  my  fortunes,  come  not  where 
Your  Master's  throne  is  set."  —  Deaf  was  the  Sea; 
Her  waves  rolled  on,  respecting  his  decree 
Less  than  they  heed  a  breath  of  wanton  air. 
Then  Canute,  rising  from  the  invaded  throne. 
Said  to  his  servile  Courtiers:  "Poor  the  reach, 
The  undisguised  extent,  of  mortal  sway  ! 
He  only  is  a  King,  and  he  alone 
Deserves  the  nanae,  (this  truth  the  billows  preach,) 
Whose  everlasting  laws,  sea,  earth,  and  heaven 
obey." 

This  just  reproof  the  prosperous  Dane 
Drew  from  the  influx  of  the  main, 
For  some  whose  rugged  northern  mouths  would 

strain 
At  Oriental  flattery ; 

And  Canute  (fact  more  worthy  to  be  known) 
From  that  time  forth  did  for  his  brows  disown 
The  ostentatious  symbol  of  a  crown  ; 
Esteeming  earthly  royalty 
Contemptible  as  vain. 

Now  hear  what  one  of  elder  days, 
Rich  theme  of  England's  fondest  praise, 
Her  darling  Alfred,  might  have  spoken ; 
To  cheer  the  remnant  of  his  host 
When  he  Avas  driven  from  coast  to  coast, 
Distressed  and  harassed,  but  with  minJ  uobrokei)  : 


'-76   POEMS  OF  SliNTIMEN"    AND  UKKLK.CTIOil 

"  My  faithful  followers,  lo !  the  tide  is  spent 
That  rose,  and  steadily  advanced  to  fill 
The  shores  and  channels,  working  Nature's  will 
Among  the  mazy  streams  that  backward  went. 
And  in  the  sluggish  pools  where  ships  are  pent : 
And  now.  his  task  performed,  the  flood  stands  still, 
At  the  green  base  of  many  an  inland  hill, 
In  placid  beauty  and  sublime  content ! 
3uch  the  repose  that  sage  and  hero  find ; 
Such  measured  rest  the  sedulous  and  good 
Of  humbler  name ;  whose  souls  do,  like  the  flood 
Of  Ocean,  press  right  on  ;  or  gently  wind. 
Neither  to  be  diverted  nor  withstood, 
Until  they  reach  the  bounds  by  Heaven  assigned." 

1816. 


XXIV. 

^A  LITTLE  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 

To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  further  on  !  " 

—  What  trick  of  memory  to  7>iy  voice  hath  brough' 

This  mournful  iteration?     For  though  Time, 

The   Conqueror,  crowns  the  Conquered,  on   thia 

brow 
Planting  his  favorite  silver  diadem. 
Nor  he,  nor  minister  of  his,  intent 
To  run  before  him,  hath  enrolled  me  yet. 
Though  not  unmenaccd,  among  those  who  lean 


A   LITTLE    ONWARD.  277 

Upon  a  living  staff,  with  borrowed  sight. 
—  O  my  own  Dora,  my  beloved  child ! 
Should  that  day  come — but  hark!  the  birds  salute 
The  cheerful  dawn,  brightening  for  me  the  east ; 
For  me,  thy  natural  leader,  once  again 
Impatient  to  conduct  thee,  not  as  erst 
A  tottering  infant,  with  compliant  stoop 
From  flower  to  flower  supported;  but  to  curb 
Thy  nymph-like  step  swift-bounding  o  er  the  lawn. 
Along  the  loose  rocks,  or  the  slippery  verge 
Of  foaming  torrents.  —  From  thy  orisons 
Come  forth  ;  and,  while  the  morning  air  is  yet 
Transparent  as  the  soul  of  innocent  youth. 
Let  me,  thy  happy  guide,  now  point  thy  way, 
And  now  precede  thee,  winding  to  and  fro, 
Till  we  by  perseverance  gain  the  top 
Of  some  smooth  ridge,  whose  brink  precipitous 
Kindles  intense  desire  for  powers  withheld 
From  this  corporeal  frame  ;  whereon  who  stands 
Is  seized  with  strong  incitement  to  push  forth 
His  arms,  as  swimmers  use,  and  plunge  —  dread 

thought ! 
For  pastime  plunge  —  into  the  "abrupt  abyss," 
Where  ravens  spread  their  plumy  vans,  at  ease  ! 

And  yet  more  gladly  thee  would  I  conduct 
Through  woods  and  spacious  forests,  —  to  behold 
There,  how  the  Original  of  human  art, 
Heaven-prompted  Nature,  measures  and  erects 
Her  temples,  fearless  for  the  stately  work, 


278    iOEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  KEFLECTION. 

Though  waves,  to  every  breeze,  its  high-arched 

roof, 
And  storms  the  pillars  rock.     But  we  such  school 
Of  reverential  awe  will  chiefly  seek 
In  the  still  summer  noon,  wMle  beams  of  light. 
Reposing  here,  and  in  the  aisles  beyond 
Traceably  gliding  through  the  dusk,  recall 
To  mind  the  living  presences  of  nuns ; 
/i  gentle,  pensive,  white-robed  sisterhood, 
VVhos<i  saintly  radiance  mitigates  the  gloom 
Of  those  terrestrial  fabrics,  where  they  serve, 
To  Christ,  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  espoused. 

Now  also  shall  the  page  of  classic  lore. 
To  these  glad  eyes  from  bondage  freed,  again 
Lie  open ;  and  the  book  of  Holy  Writ, 
4.gain  unfolded,  passage  clear  shall  yield 
To  heights  more  glorious  still,  and  into  shades 
More  awful,  where,  advancing  hand  in  hand, 
We  may  be  taught,  0  Darling  of  my  care  ! 
To  calm  the  affections,  elevate  the  soul, 
Ajid  consecrate  our  live?  to  truth  and  love. 

1616 


OL»E    10    LTC0KI3.  279 

XXV. 

ODE  TO   LYCuRIS. 

May,  1817. 


An  age  iath  been  when  Earth  was  proud 

Of  lustre  too  intense 

To  be  sustained  ;  and  Mortals  bowed 

The  front  in  self-defence. 

AVho  then,  if  Dian's  crescent  gleamed, 

Or  Cupid's  spai'kling  arrow  streamed 

While  on  the  wing  the  Ux'chin  played. 

Could  fearlessly  approach  the  shade  ? 

Enougli  for  one  soft  vernal  day, 

If  I,  a  bard  of  ebbing  time, 

And  nurtured  in  a  fickle  clime, 

May  haunt  this  horned  bay  ; 

Whose  amorous  water  multiplies 

The  flitting  halcyon's  vivid  dyes  ; 

And  smooths  her  liquid  breast,  —  to  show 

These  swan-like  specks  of  mountain  snow, 

White  as  the  pair  that  slid  along  the  pljj.ins 

Of  heaven,  when  Venus  held  the  reins  ! 

n. 

In  youth  we  love  the  darksome  lawn 
Brushed  by  the  owlet's  wing  ; 
Then,  Tv?iUaht  is  preferred  to  Dawn, 


J!80   POEMS  OF  SENTIMEXT  AXD  REFi.IX'llCt.*. 

And  Auturan  to  the  Spring. 
Sad  fancies  do  we  then  affect, 
In  luxury  of  disrespect 
To  our  own  prodigal  excess 
Of  too  familiar  happiness. 
Lycoris  (if  such  name  befit 
Thee,  thee  my  life's  celestial  sign  !) 
When  Nature  marks  the  year's  decline, 
Be  ours  to  welcome  it ; 
Pleased  with  the  harvest  hope  that  runs 
Before  the  path  of  milder  suns  ; 
■    Pleased  while  the  sylvan  world  displays 
Its  ripeness  to  the  feeding  gaze  ; 
Pleased  when  the  sullen  winds  resound  the  knell 
Of  the  re  'nlendent  miracle. 

but  something  whispeis  to  my  heart 

That,  as  we  downward  tend, 

i_ycoris  !  life  requires  an  art 

To  which  our  souls  must  bend  ; 

A  skill  —  to  balance  and  supply; 

And,  ere  the  flowing  fount  be  dry, 

As  soon  it  must,  a  sense  to  sip. 

Or  drink,  with  no  fastidious  lip. 

Then  welcome,  above  all,  the  Guest 

Wliose  smiles,  diffused  o'er  land  and  sea. 

Seem  to  recall  the  Deity 

Of  youth  into  the  breast: 

May  pensive  Autumn  ne'er  present 


TO    THE    SAME.  281 

A  claim  to  her  disparagement ! 

While  blossoms  aui  the  oudding  spray 

Inspire  us  in  our  owii  decay  ; 

Still,  as  we  nearer  draw  to  life's  dark  goal, 

Be  hopeful  Spring  the  favorite  of  the  Soul ! 


XXVI. 

TO   THE   SAME. 


Enough  of  climbing  toil!  —  Ambition  treads 

Here,  as  'mid  busier  scenes,  ground  steep  and  rougJi, 

Or  slippery  even  to  peril !  and  each  step, 

As  we  for  most  uncertain  recompense 

Mount  toward  the  empire  of  the  fickle  clouds, 

Each  weary  step,  dwarfing  the  world  below, 

Induces,  for  its  old,  familiar  sights, 

Unacceptable  feelings  of  contempt, 

With  wonder  mixed, —  that  Man  could  e'er  be  tied. 

In  anxious  bondage,  to  such  nice  array 

And  formal  fellowship  of  petty  things  ! 

Oh  !  't  is  the  heart  that  magnifies  this  life, 

Making  a  truth  and  beauty  of  her  own  ; 

And  moss-grown  alleys,  circumscribing  shades, 

And  gurgling  rills  assist  her  in  the  work 

More  efficaciously  than  realms  outspread. 

As  in  a  map,  before  tho  adventurer's  gaze,  — 

Ocean  and  Earth  contending  for  regard. 


282    POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  liEFLECTION 

The  umbrageous  woods  are  left  —  how  far  be- 
neath ! 
But  lo  !  where  darkness  seems  to  guard  the  mouth 
Of  yon  wild  cave,  whose  jagged  brows  are  fruiged 
With  flaccid  threads  of  ivy,  in  the  still 
And  sultry  air  depending  motionless. 
Yet  cool  the  space  within,  and  not  uncheered 
(As  whoso  enters  shall  erelong  perceive) 
By  stealthy  influx  of  the  timid  day 
Mingling  with  night,  such  twilight  to  compose 
As  Numa  loved  ;  when,  in  tlie  Egerian  grot, 
From  the  sage  Nymph  appearing  at  his  wish, 
He  gained  whate'er  a  regal  mind  might  ask, 
Or  need,  of  counsel  breathed  through  lips  divine. 

Long  as  the  heat  shall  rage,  let  that  dim  cave 
Protect  us,  there  deciphering  as  we  may 
Diluvian  i-ecords  ;  or  the  signs  of  Earth 
Interpreting  ;  or  counting  for  old  Time 
His  minutes,  by  reiterated  drops, 
Audible  tears,  from  some  invisible  source 
That  deepens  upon  fancy,  —  more  and  more 
Drawn  toward  the  centre  whence  those  sighs  creep 

forth 
To  awe  the  lightness  of  liumanity. 
Or,  shutting  uj)  thyself  witlun  thyself, 
riiere  let  me  see  thee  sink  into  a  mood 
Of  gentler  thought,  protracted  till  thine  eye 
B«^  calm  as  water  when  the  winds  are  gone, 
And  no  one.  can  tt-ll  whither.     Dearest  Friend  I 


SEPTEMBER,    1819.  283 

"We  too  have  known  such  happy  hours  together, 

That,  were  power  granted  to  replace  them  (fetched 

From  out  the  pensive  shadows  where  they  lie) 

In  the  first  warmth  of  their  original  sunshine. 

Loth  should  I  be  to  use  it :  passing  sweet 

Are  the  domains  of  tender  memory  ! 

1817 


XXVII. 

SEPTEMBER,  1819. 

The  sylvan  slopes  with  corn-clad  fields 
Are  hung  as  if  with  golden  shields 
Bright  trophies  of  the  sun  ! 
Like  a  fair  sister  of  the  sky, 
Unruffled  doth  the  blue  lake  lie, 
The  mountains  looking  on. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  yon  vocal  grove, 
Albeit  uninspired  by  love. 
By  love  untaught  to  ring. 
May  well  afford  to  mortal  ear 
An  impulse  more  profoundly  dear 
Than  music  of  the  Spring. 

For  that  from  turbulence  and  heat 
Proceeds,  from  some  uneasy  seat 
In  nature's  struggling  frame, 


iS4  UPON    THE    SAME    OCCASION. 

Some  region  of  impatient  life  : 
And  jealousy,  and  quivering  strife, 
Therein  a  portion  claim. 

This,  this  is  holy  ;  —  Avhile  I  hear 
These  vespers  of  another  year, 
This  hymn  of  thanks  and  praise, 
My  spirit  seems  to  mount  above 
The  anxieties  of  human  love, 
And  earth's  precarious  days. 

But  list !  —  though  winter  storms  be  nigh, 
Unchecked  is  that  soft  harmony : 
There  lives  Who  can  provide 
For  all  his  creatures  ;  and  in  Him, 
Even  like  the  radiant  Seraphim, 
These  choristers  confide. 


XXVIII. 

Hi^ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

Departing  Summer  hath  assumed 
All  aspect  tenderly  illumed, 
The  gentlest  look  of  Spring, 
That  calls  from  yonder  leafy  shade, 
Unfaded,  yet  prepared  to  fade, 
A  timely  carolling 


Ul'ON   THE    SAME    OCCASION  285 

No  faint  and  hesitating  trill, 
Such  tribute  as  to  Winter  chill 
The  lonely  redbreast  pays  ! 
Clear,  loud,  and  lively  is  the  din, 
From  social  warblers  gathering  in 
Their  harvest  of  sweet  lays. 

Nor  doth  the  example  fail  to  cheer 
Me,  conscious  that  my  leaf  is  sere, 
And  yellow  on  the  bough  :  — 
Fall,  rosy  garlands,  from  my  head  ! 
Ye  myrtle  wreaths,  your  fragranje  shed 
Around  a  younger  brow  ! 

Yet  will  I  temperately  rejoice  ; 

Wide  is  the  range,  and  free  the  choice 

Of  undiscordant  themes  ; 

Which,  haply,  kindred  souls  may  prize 

Not  less  than  vernal  ecstasies, 

And-  passion's  feverish  dreams. 

For  deathless  powers  to  verse  belong, 
And  they  like  Demigods  are  strong 
On  whom  the  Muses  smile  ; 
But  some  their  function  have  disclaimed, 
Best  pleased  with  what  is  aptliest  framed 
To  enervate  and  defile. 

Not  such  the  initiatory  strains 
Committed  to  the  silent  plains 


286  roEMS  OF  sentiment  and  reflection. 

In  Britain's  earliest  dawn  : 

Trembled  the  gi'oves,  the  stars  grew  pale, 

While  all  too  daringly  the  veil 

Of  nature  was  withdrawn  ! 

Nor  such  the  sprit-stirring  note 
When  the  live  chords  Alcajus  smote, 
Inflamed  by  sense  of  wrong  ; 
Woe  !  woe  to  Tyrants  !  from  the  lyre 
Broke  threateningly,  in  sparkles  dire 
Of  fierce,  vindictive  song. 

And  not  unhallow^ed  was  the  page 
By  winged  Love  inscribed,  to  assuage 
The  pangs  of  vain  pursuit ; 
Love  listening  while  the  Lesbian  Maid 
With  finest  touch  of  passion  swayed 
Hfir  own  ^olian  lute. 

O  ye,  who  patiently  explore 
The  wreck  of  Herculanean  lore. 
What  rapture  !  could  ye  seize 
Some  Tlieban  fragment,  or  unroll 
One  precious,  tender-hearted  scroll 
Of  pure  Sinionides. 

That  were,  indeed,  a  genuine  birth 
Of  poesy  ;  a  bursting  forth 
Of  genius  from  the  dust : 
Wliat  Horace  gloried  to  behold. 


MEMORY.  2S7 

"WTiat  Maro  loved,  shall  we  enfold  ? 
Can  haughty  Time  be  just ! 

181». 


XXIX. 

MEMORY. 

A  PEN  —  to  register  ;  a  key  — 
That  winds  through  secret  wards ; 
Are  well  assigned  to  Memory 
By  allegoric  Bards. 

As  aptly,  also,  might  be  given 

A  Pencil  to  her  hand  ; 

That,  softening  objects,  sometimes  even 

Outstrips  the  heart's  demand  ; 

That  smooths  foregone  distress,  the  lines 
Of  lingering  care  subdues, 
Long-vanished  happiness  refines, 
And  clothes  in  brighter  hues  ; 

Yet,  like  a  tool  of  Fancy,  works 
Those  Spectres  to  dilate 
That  startle  Conscience,  as  she  lurks 
Within  her  lonely  seat. 

C  that  our  lives,  which  floe  so  fast, 
Ir.  purity  were  such, 


S83    POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION 

That  not  an  image  of  the  past 
Should  fear  that  pencil's  touch  ! 

Retirement  then  might  hourly  look 
Upon  a  soothing  scene, 
Age  steal  to  his  allotted  nook 
Contented  and  serene  ; 

With  heart  as  calm  as  lakes  that  sleep 
In  frosty  moonliglit  glistening  ; 
Or  mountain  rivers,  where  they  creep 
Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep, 
To  their  own  far-off  murmurs  listening* 

J  823. 


XXX. 

This  Lawn,  a  carpet  all  alive 

With  shadows  flung  from  leaves,  to  strive 

In  dance,  amid  a  press 
Of  sunshine,  an  apt  emblem  yields 
Of  Worldlings  revelling  in  the  fields 

Of  strenuous  idleness ; 

Less  quick  the  stir  when  tide  and  breeze 
Encounter,  and  to  narrow  seas 

Forbid  a  moment's  rest ; 
Tlie  mcdhy  less  when  Boreal  Lights 
Clnnco  to  and  fro,  like  aery  Sprites 

To  feats  of  arms  addi-est! 


HUMAJS'lTl.  2tii 

Yet,  spite  of  all  this  eager  strife, 
Tliis  ceaseless  play,  the  genuine  life 

That  serves  the  steadfast  hours 
Is  in  the  grass  beneath,  that  grows 
Unheeded,  and  the  mute  repose 

Of  sweetly-breathing  flowers. 


XXXI. 

HUiMANITY. 

[  ilie  Bocking-stones,  alluded  to  in  the  beginning  of  the  fol- 
(owing  verses,  are  supposed  to  have  been  used,  by  our  British 
ancestors,  both  for  judicial  ani  religious  purposes.  Such 
stones  are  not  uncommonly  found,  at  this  day,  both  in  Great 
Britain  and  in  Ireland.] 

What  though  the  Accused,  upon  his  own  appeal 
To  righteous  Gods  when  man  has  ceased  to  feel, 
Or  at  a  doubting  Judge's  ?tern  command, 
Before  the  Stone  of  Power  no  longer  stand, 
To  take  his  sentence  from  the  balanced  Block, 
As,  at  his  touch,  it  rocks,  or  seems  to  rock  ; 
Though,  in  the  depths  of  sunless  groves,  no  more 
The  Druid-priest  the  hallowed  Oak  adore  ; 
Vet,  for  the  Initiate,  rocks  and  whispering  trees 
Do  still  perform  mysterious  offices  ! 
And  functions  dwell  in  beast  and  bird  that  sway 

VOL    IV.  19 


290  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

The  reasoning  mind,  oi*  with  the  fancy  play. 
Inviting,  at  all  seasons,  ears  and  eyes 
To  watch  for  undelusive  auguries  ; — 
Not  uninspired  appear  their  simplest  ways  ; 
Their  voices  mount  symbolical  of  praise, 
To  mix  with  hymns  that  Spirits  make  and  hear  ; 
And  to  fallen  man  their  innocence  is  dear. 
Enraptured  Art  draws  from  those  sacred  springs 
Streams  that  reflect  the  poetry  of  things  ! 
Where    Christian    Martyrs    stand   in   hues   por- 
trayed. 
That,  might  a  wish  avail,  would  never  fade, 
Borne  in  their  hands  the  lily  and  the  palm 
Shed  round  the  altar  a  celestial  calm ; 
There,  too,  behold  the  lamb  and  guileless  dove 
Pressed  in  the  tenderness  of  virgin  love 
To  saintly  bosoms  !  —  Glorious  is  the  blending 
Of  right  affections  climbing  or  descending 
Along  a  scale  of  light  and  life,  with  cares 
Alternate  ;  carrying  holy  thoughts  and  prayers 
Up  to  the  sovereign  seat  of  the  Most  High  ; 
Descending  to  the  worm  in  charity  ; 
Like  those  good  Angels  whom  a  dream  of  night 
Gave,  in  the  field  of  Luz,  to  Jacob's  sight, 
All,  while  he  slept,  treading  the  pendent  stairs 
Earthward  or  heavenward,  radiant  messengers, 
That,  with  a  perfect  will  in  one  accord 
Of  sirict  obedience,  serve  the  Almighty  Lord  ; 
And  with  untired  humility  forbore 
To  sped  their  errand  by  the  wings  they  wore. 


HUMANTTT,  291 

"What  a  fail"  world  were  ours  for  verse  to  paint, 
If  Power  could  live  at  ease  with  self-restraint ! 
Opinion  bow  before  the  naked  sense 
Of  the  great  Vision,  —  faith  in  Providence  ; 
Merciful  over  all  his  creatures,  just 
To  the  least  particle  of  sentient  dust ; 
But,  fixing  by  immutable  deci-ees. 
Seed-time  and  harvest  for  his  purposes  ! 
Then  -would  be  closed  the  restless  oblique  eye 
That  looks  for  evil  like  a  treacherous  spy  ; 
Disputes  would  then  relax,  like  stormy  winds 
That  into  breezes  sink  ;  impetuous  minds 
By  discipline  endeavor  to  grow  meek 
As  Truth  herself,  whom  they  profess  to  seek. 
Then  Genius,  shunning  fellowship  with  Pride, 
Would  braid  his  golden  locks  at  Wisdom's  side ; 
Love  ebb  and  flow  untroubled  by  caprice  ; 
And  not  alone  harsh  tyranny  would  cease, 
But  unoffending  creatures  find  release 
From  qualified  oppression,  whose  defence 
Rests  on  a  hollow  plea  of  recompense  ; 
Thought-tempered  wrongs,  for  each  humane  respect 
Oft  worse  to  bear,  or  deadlier  in  effect. 
AVitness  those  glances  of  indignant  scorn 
From  some  high-minded  Slave,  impelled  to  spurii 
The  kindness  that  would  make  him  less  forloru  ; 
Or,  if  the  soul  to  bondage  be  subdued, 
His  look  of  pitiable  gratitude  ! 

Alas  for  thee,  bright  Galaxy  of  Isles, 
Whose  day  departs  in  pomp,  returns  with  smiles, 


'd\l2    P0E3IS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

To  greet  the  flowers  and  fruitage  of  a  land, 
As  the  sun  mounts,  by  sea-born  breezes  fanned ; 
A  land  whose  azure  mountain-tops  are  seats 
For  Gods  in  council,  whose  green  vales,  retreats 
Fit  for  the  shades  of  heroes,  mingling  there 
To  breathe  Elysian  peace  in  upper  air. 

Though  cold  as  winter,  gloomy  as  the  grave, 
Stone-walls  a  prisoner  make,  but  not  a  slave. 
Shall  man  assume  a  property  in  man  ? 
Lav  on  the  moral  will  a  withering  ban  ? 
Shame  that  our  laws  at  distance  still  protect 
Einormities,  which  they  at  home  reject  ! 
"  Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England,"  —  yet  thai 

boast 
Is  but  a  mockery  !  when  from  coast  to  coast, 
T\\oug\i  fettered  &\ixxe  be  none,  her  floors  and  soil 
Groan  underneath  a  weight  of  slavish  toil. 
For  the  poor  Many,  measured  out  by  rules 
Fetched  with  cupidity  from  heartless  schools, 
That  to  an  Idol,  falsely  called  '•  the  Wealth 
Of  Nations,"  sacrifice  a  Peoi)le's  health, 
Body  and  mind  and  soul ;  a  thirst  so  keen 
Is  ever  urn;in2j  on  the  va^t  machine 
Of  sleepless  Labor,  'mid  whose  dizzy  wheels 
The  Power  least  prized  is  that  which  thinks  and 
feels. 

Then,  for  the  pastimes  of  this  delicate  ago 
And  all  tho  heavy  or  light  vassalage 
U'liich  for  their  sakcs  we  fasten,  as  may  suit 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REJXECTION.    'J\)'d 

Our  varying  moods,  on  human  kind  or  brute, 

'T  were  well  in  little,  as  in  great,  to  pause, 

Lest  Fancy  trifle  with  eternal  laws. 

Not  from  his  fellows  only  man  may  learn 

Rights  to  compare  and  duties  to  discern ! 

All  creatures  and  all  objects,  in  degree, 

Are  friends  and  patrons  of  humanity. 

There  are  to  whom  the  garden,  grove,  and  field 

Perpetual  lessons  of  forbearance  yield  ; 

Who  would  not  lightly  violate  the  grace 

The  lowliest  flower  possesses  ir  its  place  ; 

Nor  shorten  the  sweet  life,  too  lugitive. 

Which  nothing  less  than  Infinite  Power  could  giv«». 

1829. 


XXXII. 

The  unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams, 
That  wastes  so  oft,  we  think,  its  tuneful  powers, 
If  neither  soothing  to  the  worm  that  gleams 
Through  dewy  grass,  nor  small  birds  hushed  in 

bowers, 
Nor  unto  silent  leaves  and  drowsy  flowers,  — 
That  voice  of  unpretending  harmony 
(For  who  what  is  shall  measure  by  what  seems 
To  be,  or  not  to  be. 

Or  tax  high  Heaven  with  prodigality  ?) 
Wants  not  a  healing  influonce  that  can  creep 
Tnto  the  human  breast,  and  mix  with  sleep 


294    POEMS  OF  SENTIMBNT  AND  REFLECTION. 

To  regulate  the  motion  of  our  dreams 
For  kindly  issues,  —  as  through  every  clime 
Was  felt  near  murmuring  brooks  in  earliest  tinx/, 
As  at  this  day,  the  rudest  swains  who  dwell 
Where  ton'ents  roar,  or  hear  the  tinkling  kneh 
Of  water-breaks,  with  grateful  heart  could  tell. 

1840. 


XXXIII. 
THOUGHTS  ON  THE   SEASONS. 

Flattered  with  promise  of  escape 

From  every  hurtful  blast, 
Spring  takes,  O  sprightly  May !  thy  shape. 

Her  loveliest  and  her  last. 

Less  fair  is  Summer  ridinoj  high 

In  fierce  solstitial  power. 
Less  fair  than  when  a  lenient  sky 

Brings  on  her  parting  hour. 

Wlien  earth  repays  with  golden  sheaves 

Tlie  labors  of  the  plough. 
And  ripening  fruits  and  forest  leaves 

All  brigliten  on  the  bough,  — 

What,  pensive  beauty  Autumn  shows, 
Before  she  hears  the  sound 


TO .  295 

Of  Winter  rushing  in,  to  clOiSe 
The  emblematic  round  J 

Such  be  our  Spring,  our  Summer  such ; 

So  may  our  Autumn  blend 
With  hoary  Winter,  and  Life  touch, 

Through  heaveu-born  hope,  her  end  : 

1829. 


XXXIV. 

TO  


UPOH  THE  BIRTH  OF  HEK  FIRST-BORN  CHILD,  MARCH,  1833 

"  Turn  porro  puer,  nt  ssevis  projectus  ab  undis 
Navita,  nudus  huini  jacet,"  &c.  —  Lucretius. 

Like  a  shipwrecked  Sailor  tost 
By  rough  waves  on  a  perilous  coast. 
Lies  the  Babe,  in  helplessness 
And  in  tenderest  nakedness, 
Flung  by  laboring  Nature  forth 
Upon  the  mercies  of  the  earth. 
Can  its  eyes  beseech  ?  —  no  more 
Than  the  hands  are  free  to  implore  ■ 
Voice  but  serves  for  one  brief  cry  ; 
Plaint  was  it  ?  or  prophecy 
Of  sorrow  that  will  surely  come  ? 
Omen  of  man's  grievous  doom ! 


296    "OEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

But,  0  Mother!  by  the  close 
Duly  granted  to  thy  throes  ; 
By  the  silent  thanks,  now  tending 
Incense-like  to  Heaven,  descending 
Now  to  minsfle  and  to  move 
With  the  gush  of  earthly  love, 
As  a  debt  to  that  frail  Creature, 
Instrument  of  struggling  Nature 
For  the  bhssful  calm,  the  peace 
Known  but  to  this  one  release, — 
Can  the  pitying  spirit  doubt 
That  for  human  kind  springs  out 
From  the  penalty  a  sense 
Of  more  than  mortal  recompense  ? 

As  a  floating  summer  cloud, 
Though  of  gorgeous  drapery  proud, 
To  the  sun-burnt  traveller, 
Or  the  stooping  laborer, 
Ofttimes  makes  its  bounty  known 
By  its  shadow  round  him  thrown  ; 
So,  by  checkerings  of  sad  cheei", 
Heavenly  Guardians,  brooding  near. 
Of  their  presence  tell,  —  too  bright, 
Haply,  for  corporeal  sight ! 
Ministers  of  grace  divine 
Feelingly  their  brows  incline 
O'er  this  seeming  Castaway, 
Breathing,  in  the  light  of  day. 
Something  like  the  faintest  breath 


TO    .  ^y 

That  has  power  to  baffle  death. — 
Beautiful,  while  very  weakness 
Captivates  like  passive  meekness. 

And,  sweet  Mother  !  under  warrant 
Of  the  Universal  Parent, 
Who  repays  in  season  due 
Them  who  have,  like  thee,  been  true 
To  the  filial  chain  let  down 
From  his  everlasting  throne, 
An«-els,  hovei'ing  round  thy  couch, 
With  their  softest  whispers  vouch. 
That  —  whatever  griefs  may  fret. 
Cares  entangle,  sins  beset, 
This  thy  First-born,  and  with  tears 
Stain  her  cheek  in  future  years  — 
Heavenly  succor,  not  denied 
To  the  babe,  whate'er  betide. 
Will  to  the  woman  be  supplied  . 

Mother  !  blest  be  thy  calm  ease  ; 
Blest  the  starry  promises,  — 
And  the  firmament  benign, 
Hallowed  be  it,  Avhere  they  shine  . 
Yes,  for  them  whose  souls  have  scope 
Ample  for  a  winged  hope. 
And  can  earthward  bend  an  ear 
For  needful  listening,  pledge  is  nere. 
That,  if  thy  new-born  Charge  shall  tread 
In  thy  footsteps,  and  be  led 


29d    POEMS  OF  SEXTIMEXT  A.VD   K  r.Ff,ECTION. 

By  that  other  Guide,  who.<e  li<rht 
Of  manly  virtues,  mildly  brigut, 
Gave  him  first  the  wished-for  part 
In  thy  gentle,  virgin  heart ; 
Then,  amid  the  storms  of  life 
Presignified  by  that  dread  strife 
Whence  ye  have  escaped  together, 
She  may  look  for  serene  weather ; 
In  all  trials  sure  to  find 
Comfort  for  a  faithful  mind  ; 
Kindlier  issues,  holier  rest, 
Than  even  now  await  her,  prest, 
Conscious  Nursling,  to  thy  breast' 


XXXV. 

THE   WARNING. 

A   SKQUEL  TO  THE   KOHEGOIXG. 

List,  the  winds  of  March  are  blowing  : 
H<!r  ground-flowers  shrink,  afraid  of  snowing 
Their  meek  heads  to  the  nipping  air, 
Which  ye  feel  not,  happy  pair ! 
Sunk  into  a  kindly  sleep. 
We,  meanwhile,  our  hope  will  keep ; 
And  if  Time  leagued  with  adverse  (Jhange 
(Too  busy  fear !)  shall  cross  its  range, 
Whatsoever  check  ;hey  bring. 


THE   WARNING.  299 

A.nxious  duty  hindering, 

To  like  hope  our  prayers  will  cling.  • 

Thus,  while  the  ruminating  spirit  feeds 
Upon  the  events  of  home  as  life  proceeds, 
Affections  pure  and  holy  in  their  source 
Gain  a  fresh  impulse,  run  a  livelier  course; 
Hopes  that  within  the  Father's  heart  prevail, 
Are  in  the  experienced  Grandsire's  slow  to  fail ; 
And  if  the  harp  pleased  his  gay  youth,  it  rings 
To  his  grave  touch  with  no  unready  strings. 
While  thoughts  press  on,  and  feelings  overflow, 
And  quick  words  round  him  fall,  like  flakes  of  snow. 

Thanks  to  the  Powers  that  yet  maintain  their 
sway. 
And  have  renewed  the  tributary  Lay. 
Truths  of  the  heart  flock  in  with  eager  pace, 
And  Fancy  greets  them  with  a  fond  embrace ; 
Swift  as  the  rising  sun  his  beams  extends, 
She  shoots  the  tidings  forth  to  distant  friends  ; 
Their  gifts  she  hails  (deemed  precious,  as  they  prove 
For  the  unconscious  Babe  so  prompt  a  love)  !  — 
But  from  this  peaceful  centre  of  delight 
Vague  sympathies  have  urged  her  to  take  flight : 
Rapt  into  upper  regions,  like  the  bee 
That  sucks  from  mountain  heath  her  honev  fee, 
Or  like  the  warbling  lark,  intent  to  shroud 
His  head  in  sunbeams  or  a  bowery  cloud, 
She  soars,  —  and  here  and  there  her  pinions  rest 


300   POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLEOTIOX. 

On  proud  towers,  like  this  humble  cottage,  blest 
With  a  new  visitant,  an  infant  guest,  — 
Towers  where  red  streamers  flout  the  breezy  skj 
In  pomp  foreseen  by  her  creative  eye, 
When  feasts  shall  crowd  the  hall,  and  steeple-bells 
Glad  proclamation  make,  and  heights  and  dells 
Catch  the  blithe  music  as  it  sinks  and  swells, 
And  harbored  ships,  whose  pride  is  on  the  sea, 
Shall  hoist  their  topmost  flags  in  sign  of  glee, 
Honoring  the  hope  of  noble  ancestry. 

But  who  (though  neither  reckoning  ills  assigned 
By  Nature,  nor  reviewing  in  the  mind 
The  track  that  was,  and  is,  and  must  be,  worn 
With  weary  feet  by  all  of  woman  born) 
Shall  now  by  such  a  gift  with  joy  be  moved, 
Jsor  feel  the  fulness  of  that  joy  reproved? 
Not  He,  whose  last  faint  memory  will  command 
The  truth  that  Britain  Avas  his  native  land  ; 
Wliose  infant  soul  was  tutored  to  confide 
III  the  cleansed  faith  for  which  her  martvrs  died: 
Whose  boyish  ear  the  voice  of  her  renown 
With  rapture  (hrilled  ;  whose  Youth  revered  the 

crown 
Of  Saxon  liberty  that  Alfred  wore, 
Alfred,  dear  Babe,  thy  great  Progenitor  ! 
Not  He,  wiio  from  her  mellowed  practice  drew 
His  social  sense  of  just,  and  fair,  and  true  ; 
And  saw,  tlicrcafter,  on  the  soil  of  France 
Ha-sli  Polity  begin  lier  maniac  dance. 


THE    WARNING.  301 

Fcundations  broken  up,  the  deeps  run  wild, 
Ncr  grieved  to  see  (liimself  not  unbeguiled), — 
Woke  from  the  dream,  the  dreamer  to  upbraid. 
And  learn  how  sanguine  expectations  fade 
When  novel  trusts  by  folly  are  betrayed,  — 
To  see  Presumption,  turning  pale,  refrain 
From  further  havoc,  but  repent  in  vain,  — 
Good  aims  lie  down,  and  perish  in  the  road 
Where  guilt  had  urged  them  on  with  ceaseless  goad, 
Proofs  thickening  round  her  that  on  public  ends 
Domestic  virtue  vitally  depends. 
That  civic  strife  can  turn  the  happiest  hearth 
Into  a  grievous  sore  of  self-tormenting  earth. 

Can  such  a  one,  dear  Babe  !  though  glad  and 
proud 
To  welcome  thee,  repel  the  fears  that  crowd 
Into  his  English  breast,  and  spare  to  quake 
Less  for  his  own  than  for  thy  innocent  sake  ? 
Too  late  —  or,  should  the  providence  of  God 
Lead,  through  dark  ways  by  sin  and  sorrow  trod, 
Justice  and  peace  to  a  secure  abode, 
Too  soon  —  thou  com'st  into  this  breathing  world- 
Ensigns  of  mimic  outrage  are  unfurled. 
Who  shall  preserve  or  prop  the  tottering  Realm  'i 
What  hand  suffice  to  govern  the  state-helm  ? 
If,  in  the  aims  of  men,  the  surest  test 
Of  good  or  bad  (what'er  be  sought  for  or  profest* 
Lie  in  the  means  required,  or  ways  ordained, 
For  compassing  the  end.  eh-e  never  gained, 


302   POE.MS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Yet  governors  and  governiid  botli  are  blind 

To  this  phuu  truth,  or  fling  it  to  the  wind ; 

If  to  expedience  principle  must  bow, 

Past,  future,  shrinking  up  beneath  the  incumbent 

Now; 
If  cowardly  concession  still  must  feed 
The  thirst  for  power  in  men  who  ne'er  concede, 
Nor  turn  aside,  unless  to  shape  a  way 
For  domination  at  some  riper  day  ; 
If  generous  Loyalty  must  stand  in  awe 
Of  subtle  Treason,  in  his  mask  of  law, 
Or  with  bravado  insolent  and  hard 
Provoking  punishment,  to  win  reward  ; 
If  office  help  the  factious  to  conspire. 
And  they  who  should  extinguish  fan  the  fire, — • 
Then  will  the  sceptre  be  a  straw,  the  crown 
Sit  loos(ily,  like  the  thistle's  crest  of  down, 
To  be  blown  off  at  will,  by  Power  that  spares  it 
In  cunning  patience,  from  the  head  that  wears  it 

Lost  people,  trained  to  theoretic  feud ! 
Lost  above  all,  ye  laboring  multitude  ! 
Bewildered,  whether  ye,  by  slanderous  tongues 
Deceived,  mistake  calamities  for  wrongs, 
And  over  fancied  usurpations  brood, 
Oft  snapping  at  revenge  in  sullen  mood  ; 
Or,  from  long  stress  of  real  injuries,  fly 
To  desperation  for  a  remedy. 

In  h  n-sts  of  outrage  spread  your  judgments  wide, 
And  to  your  wrath  cry  out,  "Be  thou  our  guide"; 


IHE    WARNING.  303 

Or,  bound  by  oaths,  come  fortli  to  tread  earth's  floor 
In  marshalled  thousands,  darkening  street  and  moor 
With  the  worst  shape  mock-patience  ever  wore  f 
Or,  to  the  giddy  top  of  self-esteem 
By  Flatterers  carried,  mount  into  a  dream 
Of  boundless  suffrage,  at  whose  sage  behest 
Justice  shall  rule,  disorder  be  supprest, 
And  every  man  sit  down  as  Plenty's  Guest ; 
—  0  for  a  bridle  bitted  with  remorse 
To  stop  your  Leaders  in  their  headstrong  course  1 
O  may  the  Almighty  scatter  with  his  grace 
These  mists,  and  lead  you  to  a  safer  place, 
By  paths  no  human  \\  isdom  can  foretrace ! 
May  He  pour  round  you,  from  worlds  for  above 
Man's  feverish  passions,  his  pure  light  of  love, 
That  quietly  restores  the  natural  mien 
To  hope,  and  makes  truth  willing  to  be  seen  ! 
£lse  shall  your  blood-stained  hands  in  frenzy  reap 
Fields  gayly  sown  when  promises  were  chean.  — 
Why  is  the  Past  belied  with  wicked  art, 
The  Future  made  to  play  so  false  a  part, 
Among  a  people  famed  for  strength  of  mind. 
Foremost  in  freedom,  noblest  of  mankind  ? 
We  act  as  if  we  joyed  in  the  sad  tune 
Storms  make  in  rising,  valued  in  the  moon 
Nought  but  her  changes.    Thus,  ungrateful  Nation  ! 
If  thou  persist,  and,  scorning  moderation. 
Spread  for  thyself  the  snares  of  tribulation. 
Whom,  then,  shall  meekness  guard  ?     Wnai  saving 
skill 


304  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REELECTION. 

Lie  in  forbearance,  strength  in  standing  still  ' 
—  Soon  shall  the  widow,  (for  the  speed  of  Time 
Naught  equals  when  the  hours  are  wing<»d  with 

crime,) 
Widow,  or  wife,  implore  on  ti-emulous  knee 
From  him  who  judged  her  lord,  a  like  decree ; 
The  skies  will  weep  o'er  old  men  desolate  •- 
Ye  little-ones  !     Earth  shudders  at  your  fate. 
Outcasts  and  homeless  orphans 

But  turn,  my  Soul,  and  from  the  sleeping  pair 
Learn  thou  the  beauty  of  omniscient  care  ! 
Be  strong  in  faith,  bid  anxious  thoughts  lie  still ; 
Seek  for  the  good  and  cherish  it,  —  the  ill 
Oppose,  or  bear  with  a  submissive  will. 

1883. 


XXXVI. 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain 

Revolve  in  one  sure  track  ; 
If  freedom,  set,  will  rise  again, 

And  virtue,  flown,  come  back  ; 
Woe  to  the  purblind  crew  who  (ill 

The  heart  with  each  day's  care ; 
Nor  gain,  from  past  or  future,  skill 

To  bear,  and  to  forbear  ! 

1898. 


THE   LABOREll's   NOONDAY   HYMN.         o'>^> 


XXXVII. 

THE  LABORER'S  NOONDAY  HYMN. 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God  is  borne 
The  voice  of  praise  at  early  morn, 
And  he  accepts  the  punctual  hymn 
Sung  as  the  light  of  day  grows  dim. 

Nor  will  he  turn  his  ear  aside 
From  holy  offerings  at  noontide  : 
Then,  here  reposing,  let  us  raise 
A  song  of  gratitude  and  praise. 

What  though  our  burden  be  not  light. 
We  need  not  toil  from  morn  fro  night ; 
The  respite  of  the  midday  hour 
Is  in  the  thankful  Creature's  power. 

Blest  are  the  moments,  doubly  blest. 
That,  drawn  from  this  one  hour  of  rest, 
Are  with  a  ready  heart  bestowed 
Upon  the  service  of  our  God  ! 

Each  field  is  then  a  hallowed  spot. 
An  altar  is  in  each  man's  cot, 
A  church  in  every  grove  that  spreads 
Its  livinjT  roof  above  oui  heads. 

VOL.   IV.  20 


30G    POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Look  Up  to  Heaven  !  tlie  industrious  Sun 
Already  half  his  race  hath  run  ; 
He  cannot  halt  nor  go  astray, 
But  our  immortal  Spirits  may. 

Lord  !  since  his  rising  in  the  east, 
If  we  have  faltered  or  transgressed, 
Guide,  from  thy  love's  abundant  cource. 
What  yet  remains  of  this  day's  course  : 

Help  with  thy  grace,  through  life's  short  da}-; 
Our  upward  and  our  downward  wtiy  ; 
And  glorify  for  us  the  west, 
When  we  shall  sink  to  final  rest. 


XXX  vin. 


ODE, 

COBrPOSED   ON   MAY    MORNING. 

While  from  the  purpling  east  departs 

The  star  that  led  the  dawn. 
Blithe  Flora  from  her  couch  upstarts, 

For  May  is  on  the  lawn. 
A  quickening  hope,  a  freshening  glee, 

Foreran  the  expected  Power, 
Wht)se  first-drawn  breath  from  bush  and  tree 

Shakes  off  that  pearly  shower. 


oi>%  307 

All  Nature  welcomes  her  whose  sway 

Tempers  the  year's  extremes  ; 
Who  scattereth  lustres  o'er  noonday 

Like  morning's  dewy  gleams  ; 
While  mellow  warble,  sprightly  trill, 

The  tremulous  heart  excite, 
And  hums  the  balmy  air  to  still 

The  balance  of  delight. 

Time  was,  blest  Power !  when  youths  and  m?.id3 

At  peep  of  dawn  would  rise, 
And  wander  forth,  in  forest  glades 

Thy  birth  to  solemnize. 
Though  mute  the  song,  to  gi-ace  the  rite, 

Untouched  the  hawthorn  bough, 
Thy  Spirit  triumphs  o'er  the  slight ; 

Man  changes,  but  not  Thou  ! 

Thy  feathered  lieges  bill  and  wings 

In  love's  disport  employ; 
Warmed  by  thy  influence,  creeping  things 

Awake  to  silent  joy  : 
Queen  art  thou  still  for  each  gay  plant 

Where  the  slim  wild  deer  roves, 
Ap.d  served  in  depths  where  fishes  haunt 

Their  own  mysterious  groves. 

Cloud-piercing  peak,  and  trackless  heatli, 
Instinctive  homage,  pay ; 


308    POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  KEELECTION. 

Nor  wants  the  dim-lit  cave  a  wreath 

To  honor  thee,  sweet  May  ! 
"Where  cities  fanned  by  thy  bl■i^k  airs 

Behold  a  smokeless  sky, 
Their  puniest  flower-pot  nursling  dares 

To  open  a  bright  eye. 

And  if,  on  this  thy  natal  morn. 

The  pole,  from  which  thy  name 
Hath  not  departed,  stands  forlorn 

Of  song  and  dance  and  game  ; 
Still  from  the  village-green  a  vow 

Aspires  to  thee  addrest, 
Wherever  peace  is  on  the  brow, 

Or  love  within  the  breast. 

Yes  !  where  Love  nestles  thou  canst  teach 

The  soul  to  love  the  more  ; 
Hearts  also  shall  thy  lessons  reach 

That  never  loved  before. 
Strii)ped  is  the  haughty  one  of  pride. 

The  bashful  freed  from  fear, 
While  rising,  like  the  ocean-tide, 

In  flows  the  joyous  year. 

Hush,  feeble  lyre  !  weak  words  refuse 

The  service  to  prolong ! 
To  yon  exulting  thrush  the  Muse 

Intrusts  the  imperfect  song  : 


TO    MAY.  309 

His  voice  shall  cliant,  in  accents  clear, 

Throughout  the  livelong  day, 
Till  the  first  silver  star  appear, 

The  sovereignty  of  May. 

1826. 


XXXIX. 

TO   MAY. 


Though  many  suns  have  risen  and  set 

Since  thou,  blithe  May,  wert  born, 
And  Bards,  who  hailed  thee,  may  forget 

Thy  gifts,  thy  beauty  scorn  ; 
There  are  who  to  a  birthday  strain 

Confine  not  harp  and  voice. 
But  evermore  throughout  thy  reign 

Are  grateful  and  rejoice  1 

Delicious  odors  !  music  sweet, 

Too  sweet  to  pass  away ! 
O  for  a  deathless  song  to  meet 

The  soul's  desire,  —  a  lay 
That,  when  a  thousand  years  are  told, 

Should  praise  thee,  genial  Power  ! 
Through  summer  heat,  autumnal  cold, 

And  winter's  dreariest  hour  ! 

Earth,  sea,  thy  presence  feel,  —  nor  less, 
If  yon  ethereal  blue 


510   POE3IS  or  SENTIMKNT  AND  REFLECTIO> 

With  its  soft  smile  the  truth  express, 

The  heavens  have  felt  it  too. 
The  inmost  heart  of  man,  if  glad, 

Partakes  a  livelier  cheer, 
And  eyes  that  cannot  but  be  sad 

Let  fall  a  brightened  tear. 

Since  thy  return,  through  days  and  weeks 

Or  hope  that  grew  by  stealth, 
Hew  many  wan  and  faded  cheeks 

Have  kindled  into  health  ! 
The  Old,  by  thee  revived,  have  said, 

"  Another  year  is  ours  "  ; 
And  way-worn  Wanderers,  poorly  fed, 

Have  smiled  upon  thy  flowers. 

Who  tripping  li.^ps  a  merry  song 

Amid  his  playful  peers  ? 
The  tender  Infant,  who  was  long 

A  prisoner  of  fond  fears  ; 
But  now,  when  every  sharp-edged  blast 

Is  quiet  in  its  sheath, 
His  Mother  leaves  him  free  to  taste 

Earth's  sweetness  in  thy  breath. 

Thy  help  is  with  the  weed  that  creeps 

Along  the  humblest  ground  ; 
No  Cliff  so  bare  but  on  its  steeps 

Thy  favors  may  be  found : 


TO   MAr.  311 

But  most  on  some  peculiar  nook 

That  our  own  hands  have  drest, 
Thou  and  thy  train  are  proud  to  look, 

And  seem  to  love  it  best. 

A.nd  yet  how  pleased  we  wander  forth 

When  May  is  whispering,  "  Come  ! 
Choose  from  the  bowers  of  virgin  earth 

The  happiest  for  your  home  ; 
Heaven's  bounteous  love  through  me  is  spread, 

From  sunshine,  clouds,  winds,  waves, 
Drops  on  the  mouldering  turret's  head. 

And  on  your  turf-clad  graves  .' ' 

Such  greeting  heard,  away  with  sighs 

For  lilies  that  must  fade, 
Or  "  the  rathe  primrose  as  it  dies 

Forsaken  "  in  the  shade  ! 
Vernal  fruitions  and  desires 

Are  linked  in  endless  chase  ; 
While,  as  one  kindly  growth  retires. 

Another  takes  its  place. 

And  what  if  thou,  sweet  May,  hast  known 

Mishap  by  worm  and  blight : 
If  expectations  newly  blown 

Have  perished  in  thy  sight ; 
If  loves  and  joys,  while  up  they  sprung, 

Were  caught  as  in  a  snare  ? 


512   POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Such  is  the  lot  of  all  the  youGe; 
However  bi'ight  and  fair. 

Lo  !  Streams  that  April  could  not  check 

Are  patient  of  thy  rule  ; 
Gurgling  in  foamy  water-brea^fi^, 

Loitering  in  glassy  pool : 
By  thee,  thee  only,  could  be  sent 

Such  gentle  mists  as  glide. 
Curling  with  unconfirmed  intent, 

On  that  green  mountain's  side. 

How  delicate  the  leafy  veil 

Through  which  yon  house  of  God 
Gleams  'mid  the  peace  of  this  deep  aale, 

By  few  but  shepherds  trod  ! 
And  lowly  huts  near  beaten  ways 

No  sooner  stand  attired 
In  thy  fresh  wreaths,  than  they  for  pi-aif»e 

Peep  forth,  and  are  admired. 

Season  of  fancy  and  of  hope, 

Permit  not  for  one  hour, 
A  blossom  from  thy  crown  to  drop, 

Nor  add  to  it  a  flower ! 
Keep,  lovel}'^  May,  as  if  by  touch 

Of  self-restraining  art. 
This  modest  charm  of  not  too  much, 

Fart  seen,  imagined  part! 

1826-1834 


LINES. 


313 


XL. 

LINES 

SUGGESTED   BY  A  PORTRAIT  FROJI  THE  PB;NCIL  OF  r.  STONE. 

Beguiled  into  forgetfulness  of  care 

Due  to  the  day's  unfinished  task  ;  of  pen 

Or  book  regardless,  and  of  that  fair  scene 

In  Nature's  prodigality  displayed 

Before  my  window,  oftentimes  and  long 

I  gaze  upon  a  Portrait  whose  mild  gleam 

Of  beauty  never  ceases  to  enrich 

The  common  light;  whose  stillness  charms  the  air, 

Or  seems  to  charm  it,  into  like  repose  ; 

Whose  silence,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  ear, 

Surpasses  sweetest  music.     There  she  sits, 

With  emblematic  purity  attired 

In  a  white  vest,  white  as  her  marble  neck 

Is,  and  the  pillar  of  the  throat  would  be 

But  for  the  shadow  by  the  drooping  chin 

Cast  into  that  recess,  —  the  tender  shade. 

The  shade  and  light,  both  there  and  everywhere, 

And  through  the  very  atmosphere  she  breathes, 

Broad,  clear,  and  toned  harmoniously,  with  skill 

That  might  from  nature  have  been  learnt  in  th* 

hour 
When  the  lone  shepherd  sees  the  morning  spresil 
Upon  the  mountains.     Look  at  her,  whoe'er 
Tliou  be,  that,  kindling  with  a  poet's  soul, 
Hast  loved  the  painter's  true  Promethean  craft 


314    I'OEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Intensely,  —  from  Iniagination  take 

The  treasure,  —  what  mine  eyes  behold  see  thoa, 

Even  though  the  Atlantic  Ocean  roll  between. 

A  silver  line,  that  runs  from  brow  to  crown 
And  in  the  middle  parts  the  braided  hair, 
Just  serves  to  show  how  delicate  a  soil 
The  golden  harvest  grows  in  ;  and  those  eyes, 
Soft  and  capacious  as  a  cloudless  sky 
Whose  azure  depth  their  color  emulates, 
Must  needs  be  conversant  with  upward  looks. 
Prayer's  voiceless  service;  but  now,  seeking  naught 
And  shunning  naught,  their  own  peculiar  life 
Vf  motion  they  renounce,  and  with  the  head 
Partake  its  inclination  towards  earth 
In  humble  grace,  and  quiet  pensiveness 
Caught  at  the  point  where  it  stops  short  of  sadness. 

Offspring  of  soul-bewitching  Art,  make  me 
Thy  confidant !  say,  whence  derived  that  air 
Of  calm  abstraction?     Can  the  ruling  thought 
Be  with  some  lover  far  away,  or  one 
Crossed  by  misfortune,  or  of  doubted  faith  ? 
Inapt  conjecture  !     Childhood  here,  a  moon 
Crescent  in  simple  loveliness  serene. 
Has  but  approached  the  gates  of  womanhood, 
Not  entered  them  ;  her  heart  is  yet  unpierced 
I5y  the  blind  Archer-god;  her  fancy  free: 
Till-  fount  of  feeling,  if  unsought  elsewhere. 
Will  not  be  found. 


LINES. 


315 


Her  right  hand,  as  it  lies 
A-cross  the  slender  wrist  of  the  left  arm 
Upon  her  lap  reposing,  holds  —  but  mark 
How  slackly,  for  the  absent  mind  permits 
No  firmer  grasp  —  a  little  wild-flower,  joined. 
As  in  a  posy,  with  a  few  pale  ears 
Of  yellowing  corn,  the  same  that  overtopped 
And  in  their  common  birthplace  sheltered  it 
Till  they  were  plucked  together  ;  a  blue  flower 
Called  by  the  thrifty  husbandman  a  weed  ; 
But  Ceres,  in  her  garland,  might  have  worn 
That  ornament,  unblamed.     The  floweret,  held 
In  scarcely  conscious  fingers,  was,  she  knows, 
(Her  Father  told  her  so,)  in  youth's  gay  dawn 
Her  Mother's  favorite;  and  the  orphan  GiH. 
In  her  own  dawn,  a  dawn  less  gay  and  bright, 
Loves  it,  while  there  in  solitary  peace 
She  sits,  for  that  departed  Mother's  sake. 
—  Not  from  a  source  less  sacred  is  derived 
(Surely  I  do  not  err)  that  pensive  air 
Of  calm  abstraction  through  the  face  diffused 
And  the  whole  person. 

Words  have  something  told 
More  than  the  pencil  can,  and  verily 
More  than  is  needed,  but  the  precious  Art 
Forgives  their  interference,  —  Art  divin". 
That  both  creates  and  fixes,  in  despite 
Of  Death  and  Time,  the  marvels  it  hath  wrought. 

Strange  contrasts  have  we  in  this  world  of  ours  1 
That  posture,  and  the  look  of  filial  love 


316  rOE-MS  or  sentiment  and  REFLECriON- 

Thinking  of  past  and  gone,  with  what  is  left 

Dearly  united,  might  be  swept  away 

Fi'om  this  fair  Portrait's  fleshy  Archetype, 

Even  by  an  innocent  fancy's  sliglitest  freak 

Banished,  nor  ever,  haply,  be  restored 

To  their  lost  place,  or  meet  in  harmony 

So  exquisite  ;  but  here  do  they  abide, 

Enshrined  for  ages.     Is  not  then  the  Art 

Godlike,  a  humble  branch  of  the  divine. 

In  visible  quest  of  immortality. 

Stretched  forth  with  trembling  hope  ?  —  Id  every 

realm, 
From  high  Gibraltar  to  Siberian  plains, 
Thousands,  in  each  variety  of  tongue 
That  Europe  knows,  would  echo  this  appeal 
One  above  all,  a  Monk  who  waits  on  God 
In  the  magnific  Convent  built  of  yore 
To  sanctify  the  Escurial  palace.     He  — 
Guiding,  from  cell  to  cell  and  room  to  room, 
A  British  Painter  (eminent  for  truth 
In  character,  and  depth  of  feeling,  shown 
By  labors  that  have  touched  the  hearts  of  kings, 
And  are  endeared  to  simple  cottagers)  — 
Came,  in  that  service,  to  a  glorious  work. 
Our  Lord's  Last  Supper,  beautiful  as  when  first 
The  appropriate  Picture,  fresh  from  Titian's  hand, 
Graced  the  Refectory :  and  there,  while  both 
Stood  with  eyes  fixed  upon  that  masterpiece, 
The  hoary  Father  in  the  Stranger's  ear 
Breathed   out   these   words:  —  "Here  daily   do 

we  sit, 


VINES.  317 

Hunks  giveri  to  Goil  for  daily  bread,  and  here, 

Pondering  the  mischiefs  of  these  restless  times, 

And  thinking  of  my  Brethren,  dead,  dispersedj, 

Or  changed  and  changing,  I  not  seldom  gaze 

Upon  this  solemn  Company,  unmoved 

By  shock  of  circumstance,  or  lapse  of  yeai's, 

Until  I  cannot  but  believe  that  they  — 

They  are  in  truth  the  Substance,  we  the  Shadows." 

So  spake  the  mild  Jeronymite,  his  griefs 
Melting  away  within  him  like  a  dream 
Ere  he  had  ceased  to  gaze,  perhaps  to  speak : 
And  T,  grown  old,  but  in  a  happier  land, 
Domestic  Portrait !  have  to  verse  consigned 
In  thy  calm  presence  those  heart-moving  words  : 
Words  that  can  soothe,  more  than  they  agitate ; 
Whose  spirit,  like  the  angel  that  went  down 
Into  Bethesda's  pool,  with  healing  virtue 
Informs  the  fountain  in  the  hum&n  breast 
Which  by  the  visitation  was  disturbed. 

But  why  this  stealing  tear?     Companion  muto. 

On  thee  I  look,  not  sorrowing  ;  fare  thee  well. 
My  Song's  Inspirer,  once  again  farewell !  * 

1834. 

*  The  pile  of  buildings,  composing  the  palace  and  convent 
of  San  Lorenzo,  has,  in  common  usage,  lost  its  proper  nair-e  in 
that  of  the  Escwial,  a  village  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  upon  which 
the  splendid  edifice,  built  t/  I'hilip  the  Second,  stands.  Tt 
need  scarcely  be  added  that  Wilkie  is  the  painter  alluded  to. 


318  rOEilS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  KEFLECTIOW. 

XLI. 

THE  FOREGOING  SUBJECT  RESUMED 

Among  a  grave  fraternity  of  Monks, 
For  One,  but  surely  not  for  One  alone, 
Tiiuinphs,  in  that  great  work,  the  Painter's  skill, 
Humbling  the  body,  to  exalt  the  soul ; 
Yet  representing,  amid  wreck  and  wrong 
And  dissolution  and  decay,  the  warm 
And  breathing  life  of  flesh,  as  if  already 
Clothed  with  impassive  majesty,  and  graced 
With  no  mean  earnest  of  a  heritage 
Assigned  to  it  in  future  worlds.     Thou,  too, 
With  thy  memorial  flower,  meek  Portraiture  ' 
From  whose  serene  companionship  I  passed, 
Pursued   by  thoughts  that  haunt  me  still ;   thou 

also  — 
Though  but  a  simple  object,  into  light 
Called  forth  by  those  affections  that  endear 
The  private  hearth  ;  though  keeping  thy  sole  seat 
In  singleness,  and  little  tried  by  time, 
Creation,  as  it  were,  of  yesterday  — 
With  a  congenial  function  art  endued 
For  each  and  all  of  us,  together  joined 
In  coui-se  of  nature  under  a  low  roof 
By  charities  and  duties  that  proceed 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  a  wiser  vow. 
To  a  like  salutary  sense  of  awe 


POEMS  OF  SEKTI.MENT  AND  REFLECTION.    319 

Or  sacred  wonder,  growing  with  the  power 
Of  meditation  that  attempts  to  weigh, 
In  faithful  scales,  things  and  their  opposites, 
Can  thy  enduring  quiet  gently  raise 
A  household  small  and  sensitive,  —  whose  love^ 
Dependent  as  in  part  its  blessings  are 
Upon  frail  ties  dissolving  or  dissolved 
On  earth,  will  be  revived,  we  trust,  in  heaven.* 

1884 


XLH. 

bo  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitir-, 

Would  that  the  little  Flowers  were  bom  to  live, 

Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  which  they  give  ; 

That  to  this  mountain-daisy's  self  were  known 
The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shado'w,  thrown 
On  the  smooth  surface  of  this  naked    tone  ! 

*  In  the  class  entitled  "  llusings, "  in  Mr.  Sonthey's  Jlinor 
Poems,  is  one  upon  his  own  miniature  picture,  taken  in  child- 
hood, and  another  upon  a  landscape  painted  by  Gaspar  Pous- 
sin.  It  is  possible  that  everj'  word  of  the  above  verses,  though 
similar  in  subject,  might  have  been  written  had  the  author 
been  unacquainted  with  those  beautiful  effusions  of  poetic  sen- 
timent. But,  for  his  own  satisfaction,  he  must  be  allowed  thus 
publicly  to  acknowledge  the  pleasure  those  two  Poems  of  his 
/riend  have  gi'vtn  him,  and  the  grateful  influence  they  have 
upon  his  luLud  as  often  us  he  reads  them,  or  thinks  of  thecr . 


320   POEMS  *tS   bENTIJIENX  ANl^  AEFLEOTION. 

And  what  if  hence  a  bold  desire  sliould  mount 
Iligli  as  the  Sun,  that  he  could  take  account 
Of  all  that  issues  from  his  glorious  fount ! 

So  might  he  ken  how  by  his  sovereign  aid 
These  delicate  companionships  are  made  ; 
And  how  he  rules  the  pomp  of  light  and  shade  ; 

And  were  the  Sister-power  that  shines  by  night 
So  privileged,  what  a  countenance  of  delight 
Would  through  the  clouds  break  forth  on  human 
sight ! 

Fond  fancies  I  wheresoe'er  shall  turn  thine  eye, 
On  earth,  air,  ocean,  or  the  starry  sky, 
Converse  with  Nature  in  pure  sympathy  ; 

All  vain  desires,  all  lawless  wishes  quelled, 
Be  thou  to  love  and  praise  alike  impelled, 
Whatever  boon  is  granted  or  withheld. 


XLiir. 


UPON    SRETNG    A     COLORED    DRAWINGT    OP 
Tllli   milD   OF  J'AHAUISE   IN   AN   ALBUM. 

Who  rashly  strove  thy  Image  to  portray  ? 
riicu  buoyant  minion  of  the  tropic  air; 


UPON  SEEING  A  COLORED  DUAWING.       321 

How  could  he  tliink  of  the  live  creature,  —  gay 

With  a  divinity  of  colors,  di'est 

In  all  her  brightness,  from  the  dancing  crest 

Far  as  the  last  gleam  of  the  filmy  train 

Extended  and  extending  to  sustain 

The  motions  that  it  graces,  —  and  forbear 

To  drop  his  pencil !     Flowers  of  every  clime 

Depicted  on  these  pages  smile  at  time  ; 

And  gorgeous  insects  copied  with  nice  care 

Are  here,  and  likenesses  of  many  a  shell 

Tost  asliore  by  restless  waves, 

Or  in  the  diver's  grasp  fetched  up  from  caves 

Where  sea-nymphs  might  be  proud  to  dwell : 

But  whose  rash  hand  (again  I  ask)  could  dare, 

'Mid  casual  tokens  and  promiscuous  shows. 

To  circumscribe  this  Shape  in  fixed  repose ; 

Could  imitate  for  indolent  survey, 

Pei'haps  for  touch  profane. 

Plumes  that  might  catch,  but  cannot  keep,  a  stain ; 

And,  with  cloud-streaks  lightest  and  loftiest,  share 

The  sun's  first  greeting,  his  last  farewell  ray  ! 

Resplendent  Wanderer !  followed  with  glad  eyea 
Where'er  her  course  ;  mysterious  Bird  ! 
To  whom,  by  wondering  Fancy  stirred, 
Eastern  Islanders  have  given 
A  holy  name,  the  Bird  of  Heaven  ! 
And  even  a  title  higher  still, 
The  Bird  of  God  !  whose  blessed  will 
She  seems  performing  as  she  flies 

-*QU  IV.  21 


322  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  BEFLECTION. 

Ofei-  the  e:ii-th  and  through  the  sT<ies 

In  never-wearied  search  of  Paradise, — 

llegion  that  crowns  her  beauty  with  the  name 

She  bears  for  us,  —  for  us  how  blest, 

How  liappy  at  all  seasons,  could  like  aim 

Uphold  our  Spirits  urged  to  kindred  flight 

On  wings  that  fear  no  glance  of  God's  pure  sighf. 

No  tempest  from  his  breath,  their  promised  rest 

Seeking  with  indefatigable  quest 

Above  a  world  that  deems  itself  most  wise 

When  most  enslaved  by  gross  realities ! 

1835. 


SONNETS 

DEDICATED    TO   LIBERTY   AND    OEDEB. 


I. 


OOMPOSKD   AFTER  READING  A  NEWSPAPER  OF  THE  DAY. 

•*  People  !  your  chains  are  severing  link  by  link ; 
Soon  shall  the  Rich  be  levelled  down,  —  the  Poor 
Meet  them  half-way."     Vain  boast !  for  these,  the 

more 
They  thus  would  rise,  must  low  and  lower  sink, 
Till,  by  repentance  stung,  they  fear  to  think  ; 
While  all  lie  prostrate,  save  the  tyrant  few, 
Bent  in  quick  turns  each  other  to  undo, 
And  mix  the  poison  they  themselves  must  drink. 
Mistrust  thyself,  vain  Country  !  cease  to  cry, 
"  Knowledge  will  save  me  from  the  threatened  woe." 
For,  if  than  other  rash  ones  more  thou  know, 
Yet  on  presumptuous  wing  as  far  would  fly 
Above  thy  knowledge  as  they  dared  to  go. 
Thou  wilt  provoke  a  heavier  penalty. 


324  SONNKTS 

II. 

UPON  THE  LATE  GENEUAL   FAST. 
MAKCJI,  1S32. 

RiiLUCTANT  call  it  was;  the  rite  delayed; 

And  ill  the  Senate  some  there  were  who  doffed 

The  last  of  their  humanity,  and  scoffed 

At  providential  judgments,  undismayed 

V>y  their  own  daring.     But  the  People  prayed 

As  with  one  voice ;  their  flinty  heart  grew  soft 

AVith  penitential  sorrow,  and  aloft 

Their  spirit  mounted,  crying,  ''  God  us  aid  !  " 

(.)  tiiat  with  aspirations  more  intense, 

Chastised  by  self-abasement  more  profound, 

This  People,  once  so  happy,  so  renowned 

For  liberty,  would  seek  from  God  defence 

Against  far  heavier  ill,  the  pestilence 

Of  revolution,  impiously  unbound  ! 


III. 

Said  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud, 

Falsehood  and  Treachery,  in  close  council  met, 

Deep  under  ground,  in  Pluto's  cabinet, 

"  The  frost  of  England's  pride  will  soon  be  thawed  ; 

Hooded  the  open  bi'ow  that  overawed 

Our  schemes  ;  the  faith  and  honor,  never  yet 

\>y  us  with  hope  encountered,  be  upset;  — 

For  once,  I  burst  my  bands,  and  cry,  a[)plaud  !  " 

Then  whispered  she,  "The  Bill  is  cari-yingout !' 


DEDICATED    TO    LIBERTY    AND    ORDER.    325 

They  heard,  and,  startmg  up,  the  Brood  of  Night 
Clapped  hauds,  and  shook  with  glee  their  matted 

locks  ; 
All  Powers  and  Places  that  abhor  the  light 
Joined  in  the  transport,  echoed  back  their  shout, 
Hurrah  for ,  hugging  his  Ballot-box  ! 


IV. 

Blest  Statesman  he,  whose  Mind's  unselfish  will 
Leaves  him  at  ease  among  grand  thoughts :  whose 

eye 
Sees  that,  apart  from  magnanimity. 
Wisdom  exists  not ;  nor  the  humbler  skill 
Of  Prudence,  disentangling  good  and  ill 
With  patient  care.     What  though  assaults  run  high, 
They  daunt  not  him  who  holds  his  ministry, 
Resolute,  at  all  hazards,  to  fulfil 
Its  duties  ;  —  prompt  to  move  but  firm  to  wait,  — 
Knowing,  things  rashly  sought  are  rarely  found ; 
That,  for  the  functions  of  an  ancient  State,  — 
Strong  by  her  charters,  free  because  imbound, 
Servant  of  Providence,  not  slave  of  Fate,  — 
Perilous  is  sweeping  change,  all  chance  unsound 


V. 


IM  ALLUSION  TO    VAEIO\IS   KECENT   HISTOIUES  AND  NOTICI  S 
OF  THE   FRENCH   REVOLUTION. 

Portentous  change,  when  History  can  appear 
A.S  the  cool  lulvocate  of  foul  devii^c  : 


326  SONNETS 

Reckless  autlacity  extol,  and  jeer 

At  consciences  perplexed  with  scruples  nice  ! 

They  who  bewail  not.  must  abhor,  the  sneer 

Born  of  Conceit,  Power's  blind  Idolater ; 

Or  haply  sprung  from  vaunting  Cowardice 

]-»ct rayed  by  mockery  of  holy  fear. 

liath  it  not  long  been  said  the  wrath  of  Man 

Works  not  the  righteousness  of  God  ?     0  bend, 

Bend,  ye  Perverse  !  to  judgments  from  on  High, 

Laws  that  lay  under  Heaven's  perpetual  ban 

AH  principles  of  action  that  transcend 

The  sacred  limits  of  humanity. 

VI. 

CONTINUED. 

Who  ponders  National  events  shall  find 
An  awful  balancing  of  loss  and  gain, 
Joy  based  on  sorrow,  good  with  all  combined. 
And  pi'oud  deliverence  issuing  out  of  pain 
And  direful  throes;  as  if  the  All-ruling  Mind, 
With  whose  perfection  it  consists  to  ordain 
Volcanic  burst,  earthquake,  and  hurricane, 
Dealt  in  like  sort  with  feeble  human  kind 
By  laws  immutable.     But  woe  for  him 
Who,  tlius  deceived,  shall  lend  an  eager  hand 
To  social  havoc.     Is  not  Conscience  ours, 
And  Truth,  whose  eye  guilt  only  can  make  dim  ; 
And  Will,  whose  office,  by  Divine  command, 
le  to  control  and  check  disordered  Powers? 


DEDICATED    TO    LIBEKTY    AND    ORDER.    327 
VII. 

CONCLUDED. 

Long-favored  England !  be  not  thou  misled 
By  monstrous  theories  of  ahen  growth, 
Lest  aUen  frenzj  seize  thee,  waxing  wroth. 
Self-smitten  till  thy  garments  reek  dyed  red 
With  thy  own  blood,  which  tears  in  torrents  shed 
Fail  to  wash  out,  tears  flowing  ere  thy  troth 
Be  plighted,  not  to  ease,  but  sullen  sloth, 
Or  wan  despair,  —  the  ghost  of  false  hope  fled 
Into  a  shameful  grave.     Among  thy  youth, 
My  Countiy  !  if  such  warning  be  held  dear, 
Then  shall  a  veteran's  heart  be  thrilled  with  joy, 
One  who  would  gather  from  eternal  truth, 
For  time  and  season,  rules  that  work  to  cheer, 
Not  scourge,  —  to  save  the  People,  not  destroy 

VIII. 

Men  of  the  Western  World !  in  Fate's  dark  book 
Whence  these  opprobrious  leaves  of  dire  portent. 
Think  ye  your  British  Ancestors  forsook 
Their  native  Land,  for  outrage  provident ; 
From  unsubmissive  necks  the  bridle  shook. 
To  give,  in  their  Descendants,  freer  vent 
And  wider  range  to  passions  turbulent, 
To  mutual  tyranny  a  deadlier  look  .'' 
Nay,  said  a  voice,  soft  as  the  south-wind's  breatli, 
Dive  through  the  stormy  surface  of  the  flood 


328  SONNETS 

To  the  gre:\t  current  flowing  underneath  ; 
Kxplfire  the  countless  springs  of  silent  good ; 
So  shall  the  truth  be  better  understood, 
And  thy  grieved  Spirit  brighten  strong  in  faith. 

IX. 

TO  THE  PENNSYLVANIANS. 

Days  undefiled  by  luxury  or  sloth, 

Firm  self-denial,  manners  grave  and  staid. 

Rights  equal,  laws  with  cheerfulness  obeyed, 

Words  that  require  no  sanction  from  an  oath, 

And  simple  honesty  a  common  growth,  — 

This  high  repute,  with  bounteous  Nature's  aid, 

Won  confidence,  now  ruthlessly  betrayed 

At  will,  your  power  the  measure  of  your  troth!  — 

All  who  revere  the  memory  of  Peun 

Grieve  for  the  land  on  whose  wild  woods  his  name 

Was  fondly  grafted  with  a  virtuous  aim, 

Renounced,  abandoned,  by  degenerate  Men, 

For  state-dishonor  black  as  ever  came 

To  upper  air  from  ^Mammon's  loathsome  den. 


AT   BOLOGNA,   IN  KEMEMBRANCE  OF  TlfK    LATE    INSIIRRBO 
TIONS,   1837. 


All,  why  deceive  ourselves !  by  no  mere  fit 
Of  suilden  passion  roused  shall  men  attain 


DEDICATED    TO    LIBERTY    AND    ORDER.    329 

True  freedom  where  for  ages  they  have  laiu 
Bound  in  a  dark,  abominable  pit, 
With  life's  best  sinews  more  and  more  unknit. 
Here,  there,  a  banded  few  who  loathe  the  chain 
May  rise  to  break  it :  effort  worse  than  vain 
For  thee,  O  great  Italian  nation,  split 
Into  those  jarring  fractions.  —  Let  thy  scope 
6e  one  fixed  mind  for  all ;  thy  rights  approve 
To  thy  own  conscience  gradually  renewed ; 
Learn  to  make  Time  the  father  of  wise  Hope ; 
Tlien  trust  thy  cause  to  the  arm  of  Fortitude, 
The  light  of  Knowledge,  and  the  warmth  of  Love. 


XI. 

COJJTISUED. 
II. 

Hard  task  !  exclaim  the  undisciplined,  to  lean 
On  Patience,  coupled  with  such  slow  endeavor, 
That  long-lived  servitude  must  last  for  ever. 
Perish  the  grovelling  few,  who,  pressed  between 
Wrongs  and  the  terror  of  redress,  would  wean 
Millions  from  glorious  aims.     Our  chains  to  sever 
Let  us  break  forth  in  tempests  now  or  never !  — 
What,  is  there  then  no  space  for  golden  mean 
And  gradual  progress  ?  —  Twilight  leads  to  day, 
And,  even  within  the  burning  zones  of  earth, 
The  hastiest  sunrise  yields  a  temperate  ray  ; 
The  softest  breeze  to  fairest  flowers  gives  birth 


330  SONNETS 

Think  not  that  Prudence  dwells  in  dark  abodes, 
She  scans  the  future  with  the  eye  of  gods. 


XII. 

CONCLUDED. 

in. 

As  leaves  are  to  the  tree  whereon  they  grow 

And  wither,  every  human  generation 

Is  to  the  Being  of  a  mighty  nation, 

Locked  in  our  world's  embrace  through  weal  and 

woe ; 
Thought  that  should  teach  the  zealot  to  forego 
Rash  schemes,  to  abjure  all  selfish  agitation, 
And  seek  through  noiseless  pains  and  moderation 
The  unblemished  good  they  only  can  bestow. 
Alas  !  with  most,  who  weigh  futurity 
Against  time  present,  passion  holds  the  scales : 
Hence  equal  ignorance  of  both  prevails, 
And  nations  sink  ;  or,  struggling  to  be  free, 
Are  doomed  to  flounder  on,  like  wounded  whales 
Tossed  on  the  bosom  of  a  stormy  sea. 


xni. 

Young  England,  —  what  is  then  become  of  Old, 
Of  dear  Old  England?     Think  they  she  is  dead, 
Dead  to  the  very  name  ?     Presumption  fed 
On  empty  air !     That  name  will  keep  its  hold 


DEDICATED    TO    LIBEHTY    AJTD    ORDER.    331 

In  the  true  filial  bosom's  inmost  fold 

For  ever.  —  The  Spirit  of  Alfred,  at  the  liead 

Of  all  who  for  her  rights  watched,  toiled,  and  bled, 

Knows  that  this  prophecy  is  not  too  bold. 

What !  how  !  shall  she  submit  in  will  and  deed 

To  Beardless  Boys,  —  an  imitative  race, 

The  servum  pecus  of  a  Gallic  breed  ? 

Dear  Mother  !  if  thou  must  thy  steps  retrace, 

Go  where  at  least  meek  Innocency  dwells  ; 

Let  Babes  and  Sucklings  be  thy  oracles. 


XIV. 

Feel  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken 
Daily  exposed,  woe  that  unshrouded  lies  ; 
And  seek  the  Sufferer  in  his  darkest  den, 
AVhether  conducted  to  the  spot  by  sighs 
And  moanings,  or  he  dwells  (as  if  the  wren 
Taught  him  concealment)  hidden  from  all  eyes 
In  silence  and  the  awful  modesties 
Of  sorrow  ;  —  feel  for  all,  as  brother  Men  ! 
Rest  not  in  hope  want's  icy  chain  to  thaw 
By  casual  boons  and  formal  charities ; 
Learn  to  be  just,  just  through  impartial  law  ; 
Far  as  ye  may,  erect  and  equalize  ; 
And  what  ye  cannot  reach  by  statute,  draw 
Each  from  his  fountain  of  self-sacrifioe  ! 


SONNETS 

UPON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH. 


IK   SERIES. 


SUGGESTED    BY   THE    VIEW   OF   LAXCASTEK    CASTLB 
(ON  THE   KOAD   FROM   THE   SOUTH). 

This  Spot  —  at  once  unfolding  sight  so  fair 

Of  sea  and  land,  with  yon  gray  towers  that  still 

Rise  up  as  if  to  lord  it  over  air  — 

Might  soothe  in  liuman  bi-easts  the  sense  of  ill, 

Or  charm  it  out  of  memory  ;  yea,  might  fill 

The  heart  witli  joy  and  gratitude  to  God 

For  all  liis  bouiiti(;s  upon  man  bestowed  : 

"Why  bears  it  then  the  name  of  "  Weeping  Ilill  ?" 

Thousands,  as  toward  yon  old  Lancastrian  Towers, 

A  prison's  crown,  along  this  way  they  past 

For  lingering  durance  or  quick  death  with  shame, 

From  this  bare  eminence  thereon  have  cast 

Tiieir  first  look,  —  blinded  as  tetirs  fell  insliowf  is 

Shed  on  tln'ir  chains  ;  and  hence  that  doleful  name. 


SONNETS.  333 


II. 

Tknoerly  do  we  feel  by  Nature's  law 

For  worst  offenders  :  though  the  heart  will  heave 

With  indignation,  deeply  moved  we  grieve, 

In  after  thought,  for  him  who  stood  in  awe 

Neither  of  God  nor  man,  and  only  saw. 

Lost  wi*etch,  a  horrible  device  enthroned 

On  proud  temptations,  till  the  victim  groaned 

Under  the  steel  his  hand  had  dared  to  draw. 

But  oh  !  restrain  compassion,  if  its  course 

As  oft  befalls,  prevent  or  turn  aside 

Judgments  and  aims  and  acts  whose  higher  source 

Is  sympathy  with  the  unfore warned,  who  died 

Blameless,  —  with  them  that  shuddered  o'er  his 

grave. 
And  all  who  from  the  law  firm  safety  crave. 


III. 

The  Roman  Consul  doomed  his  sons  to  die 

Who  had  betrayed  their  country.     The  stern  worJ 

Afforded  (may  it  through  all  time  afford) 

A  theme  for  praise  and  admiration  high. 

Upon  the  surface  of  humanity 

He  rested  not ;  its  depth  his  mind  explored ; 

He  felt ;  but  his  parental  bosom's  lord 

Was  Duty,  —  Duty  calmed  his  agony. 

And  some,  we  know,  when  they  by  wilful  act 


334  SONNETS. 

A  single  human  life  have  wrongly  taken, 
Pass  sentence  on  themselves,  confess  the  I'act, 
And,  to  atone  for  it,  with  soul  unshaken 
Kneel  at  the  feet  of  Justice,  and,  for  faith 
Broken  with  all  mankind,  solicit  death. 


IV. 

Is  Death,  when  evil  against  good  has  fought 
With  such  fell  mastery  that  a  man  may  dare 
By  deeds  the  blackest  pui-pose  to  lay  bare,  — 
Is  Death,  for  one  to  that  condition  brought, 
For  him,  or  any  one,  the  thing  that  ought 
To  be  most  dreaded  ?     Lawgivers,  beware. 
Lest,  capital  pains  remitting  till  ye  spare 
The  murderer,  ye,  by  sanction  to  that  thought 
Seemingly  given,  debase  the  general  mind. 
Tempt  the  vague  will  tried  standards  to  disown, 
Nor  only  palpable  restraints  unbind, 
But  upon  Honor's  head  disturb  tiio  crown, 
Whose  absolute  rule  permits  not  to  withstand 
In  the  weak  love  of  life  his  least  command. 


Not  to  the  object  specially  designed, 

Ilowe'er  momentous  in  itself  it  be, 

Good  to  promote  or  curb  depravity, 

Is  tlic  wis(!  Legislator's  view  confined. 

His  Spirit,  when  most  severe,  is  oft  most  kind ; 


rVON    THE    PUNISHMENT    OF    DEATH.       335 

As  all  Authority  in  earth  depends 

On  Love  and  Fear,  their  several  powers  he  blends. 

Copying  with  awe  the  one  Paternal  raind. 

Uncaught  by  processes  in  show  humane, 

He  feels  how  far  the  act  would  derogate 

From  even  the  humblest  functions  of  the  State, 

If  she,  self-shorn  of  Majesty,  ordain 

That  never  more  shall  hang  upon  her  breath 

The  last  alternative  of  Life  or  Death. 


vr. 

Ye  brood  of  conscience,  Spectres  !  that  frequent 
The  bad  man's  restless  walk,  and  haunt  his  bed,— - 
Fiends  in  your  aspect,  yet  beneficent 
In  act,  as  hovering  Angels  when  they  spread 
Their  wings  to  guard  the  unconscious  Innocent, — 
Slow  be  the  Statutes  of  the  land  to  share 
A  laxity  that  could  not  but  impair 
Your  power  to  punish  crime,  and  so  prevent. 
And  ye,  Beliefs  !  coiled  serpent-like  about 
The  adage  on  all  tongues,  "  Murder  will  out," 
How  shall  your  ancient  warnings  work  for  good 
In  the  full  might  they  hitherto  have  shown. 
If  for  deliberate  shedder  of  man's  blood 
Survive  not  Judgment  that  requires  his  own  ? 


336  SONNETS 


VII. 

Before  the  world  had  passed  her  time  of"  youth, 
While  polity  and  discipline  were  weak. 
The  precept  eye  for  eye,  and  tooth  for  tooih, 
Came  forth,  —  a  light,  though  but  as  of  daybreak. 
Stronsr  as  could  then  be  borne.     A  Master  meek 
Proscribed  the  spirit  fostered  by  that  rule, 
Patience  his  law,  long-suffering  his  school, 
And  love  the  end,  which  all  through  peace  must 

seek. 
But  lamentably  do  they  err  who  strain 
His  mand^ites,  given  rash  impulse  to  control 
And  keep  vindictive  thirstings  from  the  soul, 
So  far  that,  if  consistent  in  their  scheme, 
They  must  forbid  the  State  to  inflict  a  pain. 
Making  of  social  order  a  mere  dream. 


VIII. 

Fit  retribution,  by  the  moral  code 
Determined,  lies  beyond  the  State's  embrace; 
Yet,  as  she  may,  for  each  peculiar  case 
She  plants  well-measured  terrors  in  the  road 
3f  wrongful  acts.     Downward  it  is  and  broad. 
And,  the  main  fear  once  doomed  to  banishment. 
Far  oftener  then,  bad  ushering  worse  event. 
Blood  would  be  spilt  that  in  his  dark  nlioilc 
Crime  might  lie  better  hid.     And,  should  the  change 
Take  from  the  horror  due  to  a  foul  deed, 


UPON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH.   3E7 

Pursuit  and  evidence  so  far  must  fail, 
And,  guilt  escaping,  passion  then  might  plead 
In  angry  spirits  for  her  old,  free  range, 
And  the  "  wild  justice  of  revenge  "  prevail. 


IX. 

Though  to  give  timely  warning  and  deter 

Is  one  great  aim  of  penalty,  extend 

Thy  mental  vision  further,  and  ascend 

Fat-  higher,  else  full  surely  shalt  thou  err. 

What  is  a  State  ?     The  wise  behold  in  her 

A  creature  born  of  time,  that  keeps  one  eye 

Fixed  on  the  statutes  of  Eternity, 

To  which  her  judgments  reverently  defer. 

Speaking  through  Law's  dispassionate  voice,  the 

State 
Endues  her  conscience  with  external  life 
And  being,  to  preclude  or  quell  the  strife 
Of  individual  will,  to  elevate 
The  grovelling  mind,  the  erring  to  recall. 
And  fortify  the  moral  sense  of  all. 


OuK  bodily  life,  some  plead,  that  life  the  shrinn 
Of  an  immortal  spirit,  is  a  gift 
So  sacred,  so  informed  with  light  divine. 
That  no  tribunal,  thoiigli  most  wise  to  sift 
Deed  and  intent,  should  turn  the  Being  adrift 
'OL.  IV.  22 


338  SONNETS 

Into  tliat  world  where  penitential  tear 
May  not  avail,  nor  prayer  have  for  God's  ear 
A  voice,  —  that  world. whose  veil  no  hand  can  lift 
For  earthly  sight.     "  Eternity  and  Time," 
They  urge,  "  have  interwoven  claims  and  rights 
Not  to  be  jeopardized  through  foulest  crime  : 
The  sentence  rule  by  mei'cy's  heaven-born  lights.' 
Even  so ;  but  measuring  not  b}^  finite  sense 
Infinite  Power,  perfect  Intelligence. 


XI. 

Ah  !  think  how  one  compelled  for  life  to  abide 

Locked  in  a  dungeon  needs  must  eat  the  heart 

Out  of  his  own  humanity,  and  part 

With  every  hope  that  mutual  cares  provide ; 

And,  sliould  a  less  unnatural  doom  confide 

In  life-long  exile  on  a  savage  coast. 

Soon  the  relapsing  penitent  may  boast 

Of  yet  more  heinous  guilt,  with  fiercer  pride. 

Hence  thoughtful  Mercy,  Mercy  sage  and  pure, 

Sanctions  the  forfeiture  that  Law  demands. 

Leaving  the  final  issue  in  His  hands 

Whose  goodness  knows  no  change,  whose  love  is 

sure, 
Who  sees,  foresees  ;  who  cannot  judge  amiss, 
And  wafts  at  will  the  contrite  soul  to  bliss. 


UPON    THE    PUNISHMENT    OF    DEATH.       339 


XII. 

See  the  Condemned  alone  within  his  cell 
And  prostrate  at  some  moment  when  remorse 
Stings  to  the  quick,  and,  with  resistless  force, 
Assaults  the  pride  she  strove  in  vain  to  quell. 
Then  mark  him,  him  who  could  so  long  rebel, 
The  crime  confessed,  a  kneeling  Penitent 
Before  the  Altar,  where  the  Sacrament 
Softens  his  heart,  till  fz'om  his  eyes  outwell 
Tears  of  salvation.     Welcome  death !  while  Heavec 
Does  in  this  change  exceedingly  rejoice  ; 
While  yet  the  solemn  heed  the  State  hath  given 
Helps  him  to  meet  the  last  Tribunal's  voice 
In  faith,  which  fresh  offices,  were  he  cast 
On  old  temptations,  might  for  ever  blast. 


XIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Yes,  though  He  well  may  tremble  at  the  sound 
Of  his  own  voice,  who  from  the  judgment-seat 
Sends  the  pale  Convict  to  his  last  retreat 
In  death  ;  though  Listeners  shudder  all  around, 
They  know  the  dread  requital's  source  profound ; 
Nor  is,  they  feel,  its  wisdom  obsolete  — 
(Would  that  it  were  !)  —  the  sacrifice  unmeet 
For  Christian  Faith.     But  hopeful  signs  abound  j 
The  social  rights  of  man  breathe  purer  air ; 


540  SONXKTS. 

Religion  deepens  her  preventive  care  ; 
Then,  moved  bj  needless  fear  of  past  abuse, 
Strike  not  from  Law's  firm  hand  that  awful  rod, 
But  leave  it  thence  to  drop  for  lack  of  use : 
O  speed  the  blessed  hour.  Almighty  God ! 


XIV. 

APOLOGY. 

The  formal  World  relaxes  her  cold  chain 

For  one  who  speaks  in  numbers  ;  ampler  scope 

His  utterance  finds  ;  and,  conscious  of  the  gain, 

Imagination  works  with  bolder  hope 

The  cause  of  grateful  Reason  to  sustain  ; 

And,  serving  Truth,  the  heart  more  strongly  beats 

Against  all  barriers  which  his  labor  meets 

In  lofty  place,  or  humble  Life's  domain. 

Enough  ;  —  before  us  lay  a  painful  road. 

And  guidance  have  I  sought  in  duteous  love 

From  Wisdom's  heavenly  Father.     Hence  hath 

flowed 
Patience,  with  trust  that,  whatsoe'er  the  way 
Each  takes  in  this  high  matter,  all  may  move 
Cheered  with  the  prospect  of  a  brighter  day. 

1840. 


NOTES. 


Page  1. 
"  The  White  Doe  of  Ryktme." 

The  Poem  of  The  \\h\te.  Doe  of  Kylstone  is  founded  en  a 
,Ocal  tradition,  and  on  the  Ballad  m  Percy's  Collection,  entitled, 
•*  The  Rising  of  the  North."  The  tradition  is  as  follows:  — 
"  About  this  time,"  not  long  after  the  Dissolution,  "  a  White 
Doe,"  say  the  aged  people  of  the  neighborhood,  "long  coutin- 
aed  to  make  a  weekly  pilgi-image  from  Eylstone  over  the  fells 
of  Bolton,  and  was  constantly  found  in  the  Abbey  Churchyard 
during  divine  service ;  after  the  close  of  which,  she  returned 
home  as  regulariy  as  the  rest  of  the  congregation."  (Dr. 
Whitakee's  History  of  the  Deanery  of  Craven.)  Rylstone 
was  the  property  and  residence  of  the  Nortons,  distinguished 
in  that  ill-ad\'ised  and  unfortunate  Insurrection;  which  led 
me  to  connect  with  this  tradition  the  principal  circumstances 
of  their  fate,  as  recorded  in  the  Ballad. 

"  Bolton  Prioiy,"  says  Dr.  Whitaker  in  his  excellent  book, 
The  History  and  Antiquities  of  the  Deanery  of  Craven,  "  stands 
upon  a  beautiful  cui-vature  of  the  Wharf,  on  a  level  sufficiently 
etevated  to  protect  it  from  inundations,  and  low  enough  for 
every  purpose  of  picturesque  effect. 

"  Opposite  to  the  east  window  of  the  Priory  Church,  the 
river  washes  the  foot  of  a  rock  nearly  perpendicular,  and  of 
the  richest  purple,  where  several  of  the  mineral  beds,  which 
break  out,  mstead  of  maintaining  their  usual  inclination  to  the 
horizon,  are  twisted  by  some  inconceivable  process  into  undu- 
lating and  spiral  lines.  To  the  South  all  is  soft  and  dehcious; 
the  eyi  reposes  upon  a  few  rich  pastures,  a  moderate  reach  of 


342  NOTES. 

the  river,  sufficiently  tranquil  to  form  a  mirror  to  the  siiii,  and 
the  bounding  hills  beyond,  neither  too  near  nor  too  lofty  to 
exclude,  even  in  winter,  any  portion  of  his  ra5's. 

"  But,  after  all,  the  glories  of  Bolton  are  on  the  North.  What- 
ever the  most  fastidious  taste  could  require  to  constitute  a  per- 
fect landscape,  is  not  only  found  here,  but  in  its  proper  place. 
In  front,  and  hnmediatoly  under  the  eye,  is  a  smooth  expanse 
of  park-like  inclosure,  spotted  with,  native  elm,  ash,  &c.,  of  the 
finest  growth:  on  the  right,  a  skirting  oak  wood,  with  jutting 
points  of  gray  rock:  on  the  left,  a  rising  copse.  Still  forward, 
are  seen  the  aged  groves  of  Bolton  Park,  the  growth  of  centu- 
ries ;  and  farther  j'et,  the  barren  and  rocky  distances  of  Simon- 
seat  and  Barden  Fell  contr;isted  with  the  wiu-mtli,  fertilitj',  and 
luxuriant  foliage  of  the  valley  below. 

"  About  half  a  mile  above  Bolton  the  valley  closes,  and 
either  side  of  the  Wharf  is  overhung  by  solemn  woods,  from 
which  huge  perpendicular  masses  of  gi"ay  i-ock  jut  out  at  in- 
tervals. 

"  This  sequestered  scene  was  almost  inaccessible  till  of  late, 
that  ridings  have  been  cut  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  and  the 
most  interesting  points  laid  open  bj' judicious  thinnings  in  the 
woods.  Here  a  tributaiy  stream  rushes  from  a  waterfall,  and 
bursts  through  a  woody  glen  to  mingle  its  waters  with  the 
Wharf:  there  the  Wharf  itself  is  nearly  lost  in  a  deep  cleft  in 
the  rock,  and  next  becomes  a  horned  flood  inclosing  a  woody 
island ;  sometimes  it  reposes  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumes 
its  native  character,  lively,  irregular,  and  impetuous. 

"  The  cleft  mentioned  above  is  the  tremendous  Stkid.  This 
chasm,  being  incapable  of  receiving  the  winter  floods,  has 
fonned  on  either  side  a  broad  strand  of  nuked  gritstone  full  of 
rock-basins,  or  '  pots  of  the  Linn,'  which  bear  witness  to  the 
restless  impetuosity  of  so  many  Northern  torrents.  But  if  here 
tHiarf  is  lost  to  the  eye,  it  amply  repays  another  sense  by  its 
deep  and  solemn  roar,  like  '  the  Voice  of  the  angry  Spirit  of 
the  Waters,'  heard  far  above  and  beneath,  amidst  the  silence 
of  the  surrounding  woods. 

'  The  terminating  object  of  the  landscape  is  the  remains  of 
Barden  Tower,  interesting  from  tiieir  form  and  situation,  and 
It  ill  more  so  from  the  recollections  which  they  excite." 


NOTES.  3  43 

Page  3. 

"Action  is  transitory,"  SfC. 

This  and  the  five  lines  tliat  follow  were  either  read  or  recited 
by  me,  more  than  thuty  j'ears  since,  to  the  late  Mr.  Hazlitt, 
who  quoted  some  expressions  in  them  (imperfectly  remem- 
bered) in  a  worli  of  his  pubUshed  several  years  ago. 

Page  4. 

"From  Bolton^s  old  monastic  Tower." 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  at  the  present  day  Bolton  Abbey 
wants  this  ornament:  but  the  Poem,  according  to  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  Poet,  is  composed  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time. 
"  Formerly,"  says  Dr.  Whitaker,  "  over  the  transept  was  a 
tower.  This  is  proved  not  only  from  the  mention  of  bells  at 
the  Dissolution,  when  they  could  have  had  no  other  place, 
but  from  the  pointed  roof  of  the  choir,  which  umst  have  ter- 
minated westward  in  some  building  of  superior  height  to  the 
ridge." 

Page  5. 
"A  Chapel,  like  a  wildr-bird's  nest." 

"  The  Nave  of  the  Church  having  been  reserved  at  the  Dis- 
solution, for  the  use  of  the  Saxon  Cure,  is  still  a  parochial 
Chapel;  and,  at  this  day,  is  as  well  kept  as  the  neatest  Eng- 
lish Cathedral." 

Page  5. 
"  Wlu)  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  Prior's  Oak!" 

"  At  a  small  distance  from  the  great  gateway  stood  the  Pri- 
or's Oak,  which  was  felled  about  the  year  1720,  and  sold  for 
70i.  According  to  the  price  of  wood  at  that  time,  it  could 
scarcely  have  contained  less  than  1400  feet  of  timber." 

Page  12. 
"  When  Lady  Aaliza  mourned." 

The  detail  of  this  tradition  may  be  found  m  Dr.  Whita- 
ker's  book,  and  in  a  Poem  of  this  Collection,  "  The  Force  of 
*^rayer." 


844  NOTES. 

Page  12. 

'  Pass,  pass  who  will,  yon  chantry  door.  " 

"  At  the  east  end  of  the  north  aisle  of  Bolton  Priory  Cimrch, 
8  a  chantry  belongnig  to  Bethmesly  Hall,  and  a  vault,  where, 
according  to  tradition,  the  Claphams"  (who  inherited  this  es- 
tate by  the  female  line,  from  the  Mauleverers)  "  were  interred 
upright."  John  de  Clapham,  of  whom  this  ferocious  act  is 
1-ecorded,  was  a  man  of  great  note  in  his  time:  "he  was  a 
vehement  partisan  of  the  house  of  Lancaster,  in  whom  the 
spirit  of  his  chieftains,  the  Clitlords,  seemed  to  survive." 

Page  13. 
"  Wlio  loved  Uie  Shephcrdr-hrd  to  meet." 

In  the  second  volume  of  these  Poems  will  be  found  one 
entitled,  "  Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  upon  the 
Restoration  of  Lord  CliflTord,  the  Shepherd,  to  the  Estates  and 
Honors  of  his  Ancestors."  To  that  Poem  is  annexed  an  ac- 
count of  this  personage,  chiefly  extracted  from  Burns  and 
Nicholson's  History  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.  It 
gives  me  pleasure  to  add  tliese  further  particulars  concerning 
him,  from  Dr.  Whitaker,  who  says,  he  "  retired  to  the  solitude 
of  Barden,  where  he  seems  to  have  enlarged  the  tower  out  of  a 
common  keeper's  lodge,  and  where  he  found  a  retreat  equally 
favorable  to  taste,  to  instruction,  and  to  devotion.  The  narrow 
limits  of  his  residence  show  that  he  had  learned  to  despise  the 
])()nip  of  gi-eatness,  and  that  a  small  train  of  servants  could 
suflice  him,  who  had  lived  to  the  age  of  thirty  a  servant  him- 
self. I  think  this  nobleman  resided  here  almost  entirely  when 
in  Yorkshire,  for  all  his  charters  which  I  have  seen  are  dated 
at  Barden. 

"  His  early  habits,  and  the  want  of  those  artificial  measures 
of  time  which  even  she])herds  now  possess,  had  given  him  a 
turn  for  observing  the  motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies;  and, 
liaviiip  ])urchased  such  an  apparatus  as  could  then  be  pro- 
cui-ed,  lie  amused  and  imonncd  himself  l)y  tliose  pursuits,  with 
ihe  aid  of  tiic  Canons  of  Bolton,  some  of  whom  are  said  to  have 
bfccn  well  versed  in  what  was  then  known  of  the  science. 


NOTES.  345 

"  1  suspect  this  noulcman  to  have  been  sometimes  occupied 
m  a  more  visionary  pursuit,  and  probably  in  the  same  com- 
pany. 

"  For,  from  the  family  evidences,  I  have  met  %s'ith  two  ilSS. 
on  the  subject  of  Alchemy,  which,  from  the  character,  spell- 
ing, &c.,  may  almost  certainly  be  referred  to  the  reign  of 
Henry  the  Seventh.  K  these  were  originally  deposited  with 
the  MSS.  of  the  Cliffords,  it  might  have  been  for  the  use 
of  this  nobleman.  If  they  were  brought  from  Bolton  at  the 
Dissolution,  they  must  have  been  the  work  of  those  Canons 
whom  he  almost  exclusively  conversed  with. 

"  In  these  peaceful  emplojnnents  Lord  Clifford  spent  the 
whole  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh,  and  the  first  years  of  his 
son.  But  in  the  year  1513,  when  ahnost  sixty  years  old,  he  was 
appointed  to  a  principal  command  over  the  array  which  fought 
at  Flodden,  and  showed  that  the  military  genius  of  the  family 
had  neither  been  chilled  in  liun  by  age,  nor  extinguished  by 
habits  of  peace. 

"  He  survived  the  battle  of  Flodden  ten  years,  and  died  April 
23d,  1523,  aged  about  70.  I  shall  endeavor  to  appropriate  to 
him  a  tomb,  vault,  and  chantry  in  the  chohr  of  the  church  of 
Bolton,  as  I  should  be  sorry  to  believe  that  he  was  deposited, 
when  dead,  at  a  distance  from  the  place  which  in  his  lifetime 
he  loved  so  well. 

"  By  his  last  will  he  appointed  his  body  to  be  interred  at 
Shap,  if  he  died  in  Westmoreland;  or  at  Bolton,  if  he  died  in 
Yorkshire." 

With  respect  to  the  Canons  of  Bolton,  Dr.  Whitaker  shows 
from  JIS  S.  that  not  only  alchemy,  but  astronomy,  was  a  favor- 
ite pursuit  with  them. 

Page  25. 

"  Nmojoyfo-  you  ivhofrom  the  towers 
Of  Brancepeth  look  in  doubt  and  f ear. ''^ 

Brancepeth  Castle  stands  near  the  river  Were,  a  few  miles 
from  the  city  of  Durham.  It  formerly  belonged  to  the  Nevilles 
Vlarls  of  Westmoreland.     See  Dr.  Percy's  account. 


346  NOTES. 

Page  33. 

"  Of  mitred  Thurston,  —  what  a  Host 
He  conquered!  " 

See  the  Historians  for  the  account  of  this  memoi'able  buttle, 
asnally  denomhiated  the  Battle  of  the  Standard. 

Page  33. 

"  In  that  other  day  of  Neville's  Cross." 

"  In  the  night  before  the  battle  of  Durham  was  struckcn  and 
begun,  the  ITth  day  of  October,  anno  1346,  there  did  ap]iear  to 
John  Fosser,  then  Prior  of  tlie  Abbey  of  Durham,  a  Vision, 
commanding  him  to  take  the  holy  Corporax-cloth,  wherewith 
St.  Cuthbert  did  cover  the  chalice  when  he  used  to  say  mass, 
and  to  put  the  same  holy  relique  like  to  a  banner-c'oth  upon 
the  point  of  a  spear,  and  the  next  morning  to  go  and  repair  to 
a  place  on  the  west  side  of  the  city  of  Durham,  called  the  Red 
Hills,  where  the  JIaid's  Bower  wont  to  be,  and  there  to  remain 
and  abide  till  the  end  of  the  battle.  To  which  vision,  the  Prior 
obeying,  and  taking  the  same  for  a  revelation  of  God's  grace 
and  mercy  by  the  mediation  of  Holy  St.  Cuthbert,  did  ac- 
cordingly the  next  morning,  with  the  monksof  the  said  abbey, 
repair  to  the  said  Red  Hills,  and  there  most  devoutly  humbling 
and  prostrating  themselves  in  prayer  for  the  victory  in  the 
said  battle:  (a  great  multitude  of  Scots  running  and  pressing 
by  them,  with  intention  to  have  spoiled  them,  yet  had  no 
power  to  commit  any  violence  under  such  holy  persons,  so 
occupied  in  prayer,  being  protected  and  defended  by  the  mighty 
providence  of  Almighty  God,  and  by  the  mediation  of  Holy  St. 
Cuthbert,  and  the  presence  of  the  holy  relique.)  And,  after 
many  conflicts  and  warlike  exploits  there  had  and  done  be- 
tween the  Knglishmen  and  the  King  of  Scots  and  hiscomjiany, 
the  said  battle  ended,  and  the  victory  was  obtained,  to  the 
great  overthrow  and  confusion  of  the  Scots,  their  enemies: 
And  then  the  said  Prior  and  monks  accompanied  with  Ralph 
Lord  Nevil,  and  .John  Novil  his  son,  and  the  Lord  Peicy,  and 
many  other  nobles  of  Kngland,  returned  home  and  went  to 
Jic  abbey  church,  there  joining  in  hearty  prayer  and  tlianki- 


NOTES.  347 

giving  to  God  and  Holy  St.  Cuthbert  for  the  victory  acliieved 
that  day." 

The  battle  was  afterwai-ds  called  the  Battle  of  Neville's  Cross 
from  the  following  cu-cumstance :  — 

"  On  the  west  side  of  the  city  of  Durham,  where  two  roads 
pass  each  other,  a  most  notable,  famous,  and  goodly  cross  of 
stone- work  was  erected  and  set  up  to  the  honor  of  God  for  the 
victory  there  obtained  in  the  field  of  battle,  and  known  by  the 
name  of  Nevil's  Cross,  and  built  at  the  sole  cost  of  the  Lord 
Ralph  Nevil,  one  of  the  most  excellent  and  chief  persons  in  the 
said  battle."  The  Eelique  of  St.  Cuthbert  afterwards  became 
of  gi-eat  importance  m  militaiy  events.  For  soon  after  this 
battle,  says  the  same  author,  "  The  Prior  caused  a  goodly  and 
sumptuous  banner  to  be  made,"  (which  is  then  described  at 
gi-eat  length,)  "  and  in  the  midst  of  the  same  banner-cloth  wa» 
the  said  holy  reliqiie  and  corporax-cloth  inclosed,  &c.,  &c., 
and  so  sumptuously  finished,  and  absolutely  perfected,  this 
baimer  was  dedicated  to  Holy  St.  Cuthbert,  of  intent  and 
purpose  that  for  the  future  it  should  be  carried  to  any  battle, 
as  occasion  should  serve;  and  was  never  carried  and  showed 
at  any  battle  but,  by  the  especial  gi-ace  of  God  Almighty,  and 
the  mediation  of  Holy  St.  Cuthbert,  it  brought  home  victory; 
which  banner-cloth,  after  the  dissolution  of  the  abbey,  fell  into 
the  possession  of  Dean  Whittingham,  whose  wife,  called 
Katharine,  being  a  French  woman,  (as  is  most  credibly 
reported  by  eyewitnesses,)  did  most  injuriously  burn  the 
same  in  her  fire,  to  the  open  contempt  and  disgrace  of  all  an- 
cient and  goodly  rehques."  —  E.Ktracted  from  a  book  entitled, 
"  Durham  Cathedral,  as  it  stood  before  the  Dissolution  of  the 
Monastery."  It  appears,  from  the  old  metrical  History,  that 
the  above-mentioned  banner  was  carried  by  the  Earl  of  Surrey 
to  Flodden  Field. 

Page  45.  , 

'^An  edifice  of  warlike  frame 
Stands  single,  —  Norton  Tower  its  name." 

It  is  so  called  to  this  day,  and  is  thus  described  by  Dr. 
Whitaker:  —  "  Rylstone  Fell  yet  exhibits  a  monument  of  the 


348  NOTES. 

old  warfare  between  the  Nortons  and  Cliffo.  ds.  On  a  point  of 
very  high  ground,  commanding  an  immense  prospect,  and  pro- 
tected by  two  deep  ravines,  are  the  remains  of  a  square  tower, 
express)}'  said  by  Dodswortli  to  liave  been  built  by  Ricliard 
Norton.  The  walls  are  of  strong  grout- work,  about  four  feet 
thick.  It  seems  to  have  been  tliree  stories  high.  Breaches 
have  been  industriously  made  in  ail  the  sides,  almost  to  tli(« 
ground,  to  render  it  untenable. 

"  But  Norton  Tower  was  probably  a  sort  of  pleasure-house 
in  summer,  as  there  are,  adjoining  to  it,  several  large  mounds, 
(two  of  them  are  pretty  entire,)  of  which  no  other  account 
can  be  given  than  that  they  were  butts  for  large  companies  of 
archers. 

"  The  place  is  savagely  wild,  and  admirably  adapted  to  the 
uses  of  a  watch  tower." 

Page  60. 

"  Despoil  and  desolation 
O'er  Rylstone' s  fair  domain  have  bloivii." 

"  After  the  attainder  of  Richard  Norton,  his  estates  were 
forfeited  to  the  crown,  where  they  remained  till  the  2d  or  3d 
of  James;  they  were  then  granted  to  Francis  Earl  of  Cumber- 
laud."  From  an  accurate  survey  made  at  that  time,  several 
particulars  have  been  extracted  by  Dr.  W.  It  appeare  that 
"  the  mansion-house  was  then  in  decay.  Immediately  adjoin- 
ing is  a  close,  called  the  Vivery,  so  called,  undoubtedly,  Crom 
the  French  Vivier,  or  modern  Latin  Vivarium:  for  tliere  are 
near  the  house  large  remains  of  a  pleasure-ground,  such  as 
were  introduced  in  the  earlier  part  of  Klizabeth's  time,  with 
topiary  works,  fish-ponds,  and  island,  &c.  The  whole  town- 
ship was'ranged  by  an  hundred  and  thirty  red  deer,  the  prop- 
erty of  the  lord,  which,  together  with  the  wood,  had,  after 
the  attainder  of  Mr.  Norton,  been  committed  to  Sir  Steplieii 
Temi)est.  The  wood,  it  seem.«,  had  been  abandoned  to  depre- 
dations, before  which  time  it  appears  that  the  neighborhood 
must  have  exhibited  a  forest-like  and  sylvan  scene.  In  this 
survey,  among  the  old  tenants,  is  mentioned  one  Richard 
Kilclier  butler  to  Mr.  Norton,  who  rose  in  rebellion  with  his 
Vaster,  ui.d  wiis  executed  at  Ripon." 


NOTES.  349 

Page  64. 

"  In  the  deep  fork  of  AmerdaleP 

"  At  the  extremity  of  the  parish  of  Burnsal,  the  valley  of 
Wharf  forks  off  into  two  great  branches,  one  of  which  retains 
the  name  of  Wharfdale,  to  the  source  of  the  river;  the  other  is 
nsually  called  Littondale,  but  more  anciently  and  properly, 
Amerdale.  Dernbrook,  which  nins  along  an  obscure  valley 
from  the  northwest,  is  derived  from  a  Teutonic  word,  signi- 
fying concealment."  —  Dr.  Whitaker. 

Page  66. 

"  When  the  bells  of  Rylstone  played 
Their  Sabbath  music,  — '  <&aii  US  ajtie ! '  " 

On  one  of  the  bells  of  Eylstone  Church,  which  seems  coeval 
with  the  building  of  the  tower,  is  this  cipher,  "it. 'N."  for 
John  Norton,  and  the  motto,  "  CSotJ  US  aj^c.  " 

Page  68. 
"  The  grassy,  rock-encircled  Pound" 

Which  is  thus  described  by  Dr.  Whitaker :  —  "On  the  plain 
summit  of  the  hill  are  the  foundations  of  a  strong  wall  stretch 
ing  from  the  southwest  to  the  northeast  corner  of  the  tower, 
and  to  the  edge  of  a  very  deep  glen.  From  this  glen,  a  ditch, 
several  hundred  yards  long,  runs  south  to  another  deep  and 
rugged  ravine.  On  the  north  and  west,  where  the  banks  are 
very  steep,  no  wall  or  mound  is  discoverable,  paling  being  the 
only  fence  that  could  stand  on  such  ground. 

"  From  the  ilinstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,  -it  nppears 
that  such  pounds  for  deer,  sheep,  &c.  were  lar  from  being  un- 
common in  the  South  of  Scotland.  The  principle  of  them  was 
something  like  that  of  a  wire  mouse-trap.  On  the  declivity  of 
a  steep  hill,  the  bottom  and  sides  of  which  were  fenced  so  as 
to  be  impassable,  a  wall  was  constructed  nearly  level  with  the 
lurface  on  the  outside,  yet  so  high  within,  that  without  wings 
it  was  icnpossible  to  escape  in  the  opposite  direction.    C<ire  wiu 


350  NOTES. 

probably  taken  tliat  tliese  inclosures  shoi.d  ontain  bettei 
feed  than  the  neighboring  parks  or  forests ;  and  ■whoever  is 
acquaint(:d  with  the  habits  of  these  sequacious  animals,  will 
easily  conceive,  that,  if  the  leader  was  once  tempted  to  lescend 
into  the  snare,  a  herd  would  follow." 

I  cannot  conclude  without  recommending  to  the  notice  of 
all  lovers  of  beautiful  scenery,  Bolton  Abbey  and  its  neighbor- 
hood. This  enchanting  spot  belongs  to  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire; and  the  superintendence  of  it  has  for  some  years  been 
intrusted  to  the  IJev.  William  Curr,  who  has  most  skilfully 
opened  out  its  features;  and,  in  whatever  he  has  added  has 
done  justice  to  the  place,  by  working  with  an  invisible  hand 
of  art  in  the  very  spkit  of  nature. 

Page  72. 
"  Ecclesiastical  SonneU." 

During  the  month  of  December,  1820, 1  accompanied  a  much 
beloved  and  honored  Friend  in  a  walk  through  diflerent  parts 
of  his  estate,  with  a  view  to  fix  upon  the  site  of  a  new  Church 
which  he  intended  to  erect.  It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
mornings  of  a  mild  season,  —  our  feelings  were  in  harmony 
with  the  cherishing  influences  of  the  scene;  and  such  being 
our  purpose,  we  were  naturally  led  to  look  back  upon  past 
events  with  wonder  and  gratitude,  and  on  the  future  with  hoi)e. 
Not  long  aftei-wards,  some  of  the  Sonnets  which  will  be  found 
towards  the  close  of  this  series  were  produced,  as  a  private 
memorial  of  that  morning's  occupation. 

The  Catholic  Question,  which  was  agitated  in  Parliament 
about  that  time,  kei)t  my  thoughts  in  the  same  course;  and  it 
struck  me  that  certain  points  in  the  Ecclesiastical  History  of 
our  Countrj'  might  advantageously  be  presented  to  view  in 
veise.  Accordingly,  I  took  up  the  subject,  and  what  1  now 
offer  tc  the  reader  was  the  result. 

When  this  work  wasfar  advanced,  I  was  agreeably  surprised 
to  find  that  my  friend,  Mv.  Southey,  had  been  engaged  willi 
similar  views  in  writing  a  concise  Histor}-  of  the  Church  in 
England.     If  our  Productions,  thus  unintentionally  coinciding 


NOTES.  351 

shall  be  found  to  illustrate  each  other,  it  will  prove  a  higt 
gratification  to  me,  which  I  am  sure  my  friend  will  participate. 

W.  Wordsworth. 
Rydal  Mount,  January  24, 1822. 

For  the  convenience  of  passing  from  one  point  of  the  subject 
to  another  without  shocks  of  abruptness,  this  work  has  taken 
the  shape  of  a  series  of  Sonnets :  but  the  Reader,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  will  find  that  the  pictures  are  often  so  closely  connectea 
as  to  have  jointly  the  effect  of  passages  of  a  poem  in  a  form 
of  stanza  to  which  there  is  no  objection  but  one  that  beara 
upon  the  Poet  only,  —  its  difficulty. 

Page  73. 

"  Did  Holy  Paul;'  #c. 

Stillingfleet  adduces  many  arguments  in  support  of  this 
opinion,  but  they  are  unconvincing.  The  latter  part  of  this 
Sonnet  refers  to  a  favorite  notion  of  Roman  Catholic  writers, 
that  Joseph  of  Arimathea  and  his  companions  brought  Chris- 
tianity into  Britain,  and  built  a  rude  church  at  Glastonbury ; 
alluded  to  hereafter,  in  a  passage  upon  the  dissolution  of  mon 
asteries. 

Page  76. 

"  That  ITdl,  whose  flowery  platform,'"  i^'C. 

This  hill  at  St.  Alban's  must  have  been  an  object  of  great 
interest  to  the  imagination  of  the  venerable  Bede,  who  thus 
describes  it,  with  a  delicate  feeling,  dehghtful  to  meet  with  in 
that  rude  age,  traces  of  which  are  frequent  in  his  works:  — 
"  Variis  herbarum  floribus  depictus  imo  usquequaque  vestitus, 
in  quo  nihil  repente  arduum,  nihil  prseceps,  nihil  abruptum, 
qnem  lateribus  longe  lateque  deductum  in  modum  eequoria 
natura  complanat,  dignum  videhcet  eum  pro  inslta  sibi  specie 
venustatis  jam  olim  reddens,  qui  beati  martyris  cruore  dica 
retar." 


3)2  NOTES. 


Page  79. 


"JVbr  wants  (he  cause  Qie  panic-striking  aid 
Of  hallelujahs." 

Alluding  to  the  victory  gained  under  Germanus.  —  See  Bede 


Page  79. 

"By  men  yet  scarcely  conscious  of  a  care 
For  other  monuments  than  those  of  Earth." 

The  last  six  lines  of  this  Sonnet  are  chiefly  from  the  prose  of 
Daniel;  and  here  I  will  state  (though  to  the  Readers  whom 
this  Poem  will  chiefly  interest  it  is  unnecessary)  that  my  obli- 
gations to  other  prose-writers  are  frequent,  —  obligations  which, 
even  if  I  had  not  a  pleasure  in  courting,  it  would  have  been 
presumptuous  to  shun,  in  treating  an  historical  subject.  1 
must,  however,  particularize  Fuller,  to  whom  lam  indebted  in 
the  Sonnet  upon  Wicliffe,  and  in  other  instances.  And  upon 
the  acquittal  of  the  Seven  Bishops  I  have  done  little  more  than 
versify  a  lively  description  of  that  event  in  the  JIS.  Memoirs  of 
the  first  Lord  Lonsdale. 

Page  80.     Sonnet  xii. 

"  Ethelforth  reached  the  convent  of  Bangor,  he  perceived  the 
Monks,  twelve  hundred  in  number,  oflering  prayers  for  the 
success  of  their  countrjmicn :  '  If  they  are  praying  against  us,' 
he  exclaimed,  '  they  are  fighting  against  us ';  and  he  onlercil 
them  to  be  first  attacked:  they  were  destroyed;  and, appuUeii 
by  their  fate,  the  courage  of  Brocmail  wavered,  and  he  fli>d 
from  the  fielil  in  dismay.  Thus  abandoned  by  their  leader, 
his  army  soon  gave  way,  and  Ethelforth  obtained  a  decisive 
conquest.  Ancient  Bangor  itself  soon  fell  into  iiis  hands,  and 
was  demolished;  the  noble  monastery  was  levelled  to  the 
ground ;  its  library,  which  is  mentioned  as  a  large  one,  the 
collection  of  ages,  the  repository  of  the  most  precious  monu- 
ments of  ancient  Britons,  was  consumed;  half-ruined  walli, 
^ites,  and  rubbish  were  all  that  remained  of  the  magnificent 
idifico."  —  Sec  Turner's  valuable  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 


NOTKS.  353 

Tiiliesin  was  present  at  the  battle  which  preceded  this  deso- 
lation. 

The  account  Bede  gives  of  tliis  remarlcable  event  suggests 
a,  most  striking  warning  against  national  and  religious  preju- 
dices. 

Page  82.    Sonnet  xv. 

The  person  of  Paulinus  is  thus  described  by  Bede,  from  the 
memory  of  an  eyewitness:  —  "  Longae  staturse,  pauluhim  in- 
curvus,  nigro  capillo,  facie  macilenta,  naso  adunco,  pertenui, 
venerabilis  simul  et  terribilis  aspectu." 

Page  82. 
"  Man's  life  is  like  a  Sparrow.^'' 

See  the  original  of  this  speech  in  Bede.  —  The  Conversion  of 
Ed^vin,  as  related  by  liim,  is  highly  interesting,  —  and  the 
breaking  up  of  this  Council  accompanied  with  an  event  so 
etriking  ^nd  characteristic,  that  I  am  tempted  to  give  it  at 
length  in  a  translation.  "  Who,  exclaimed  the  King,  when  the 
Council  was  ended,  shall  first  desecrate  the  altars  and  the 
temples?  I,  answered  the  Chief  Priest;  for  who  more  fit 
than  myself,  through  the  wisdom  which  the  true  God  hath 
given  me,  to  destroy,  for  the  good  example  of  others,  what  in 
foolishness  I  worsliipped  ?  Immediately,  casting  away  vain  su- 
perstition, he  besought  tlie  King  to  grant  him  what  the  laws 
did  not  allow  to  a  priest,  arms  and  a  courser  (equum  emissa- 
rium);  wliich  mounting,  and  furnished  with  a  sword  and 
lance,  he  proceeded  to  destroy  the  Idols.  The  crowd,  seeing 
this,  thought  him  mad ;  —  he  however  haltcjd  not,  but,  ap- 
proaching, he  profaned  the  temple,  casting  against  it  the  lance 
wliich  he  had  held  in  his  hand,  and,  exulting  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  worship  of  the  true  God,  he  ordered  his  compan- 
ions to  pull  down  the  temple,  with  all  its  inclosures.  The 
nlace  is  shown  where  those  idols  formerly  stood,  not  far  from 
^ork,  at  the  source  of  the  river  Derwent,  and  is  at  this  day 
sailed  Gormund  Gaham,  ubi  pontifex  ille,  inspiraiitc  Deo  vero, 
poUuit  ac  dcstruxit  eas,  quas  ipse  sucravcrat  aras."     The  last 

VOL.  IV.  23 


3o4  NOTES. 

expression  is  a  pleasing  proof  that  the  venerable  monk  of  Wear- 
tnoutli  was  familiar  with  the  poetry  of  Virgil. 

Page  83. 

"  Such  the  inviting  voice 
Heard  nearfreoh  streams,"  tf-c. 

The  early  propagators  of  Christianity  were  accustomed  to 
preach  near  rivers,  for  the  convenience  of  baptism. 

Page  84.     Sonnet  xix. 

Having  spolcen  of  the  zeal,  disinterestedness,  and  temperance 
of  the  clergy  of  those  times,  Bede  thus  proceeds; — "  Unde  et 
in  magna  erat  veneratione  tempore  illo  religionis  habitus,  ita 
nt  ubicunque  clericus  aliquis,  aut  monachus  adveniret,  gauden- 
ter  ab  omnibus  tanquam  Dei  famulus  exciperetur.  Etiam  sj 
in  itinere  pergens  inveniretur,  accurrebant,  et  flexa  cervioe, 
vel  manu  signari,  vel  ore  illius  se  benedici,  gaudebaut.  Ver- 
bis quoque  horum  exhortatoriis  diUgenter  auditum  prsebebant." 
—  Lib.  III.  cap.  26. 

Page  88. 

*^  The  people  work  like  congregated  bees." 

See,  in  Turner's  History,  Vol.  IH.  p.  528,  the  account  of  the 
erection  of  Ramsey  ilonastery.  Penances  were  removable  by 
the  performance  of  acts  of  chanty  and  benevolence. 

Page  89. 

"  Pain  narrows  not  his  cares." 

Through  the  whole  of  his  life,  Alfred  was  subject  to  grieroTU 
maludios. 

Page  91. 

"  Woe  to  the  Croum  Hiat  dotJi  tlie  Cowl  obey  !  " 

The  violent  measures  carried  on  under  the  influence  of  Dud 
itan,  for  strengthening  the  Benedictine  Order,  were  a  leading 
wM"»e  of  the  second  series  of  Danish  invasions.  —  See  Tumor. 


NOTES.  355 

Page  100. 
"  Here  Man  more  purely  lives, '  ^-c. 

"  Bonum  est  nos  hie  esse,  quia  homo  vi\'it  purius,  cadit  ra- 
rius,  surgit  velocius,  incedit  cautius,  quiescit  sv^curius,  moritur 
felicius,  piirgatur  citius,  praemiatur  copiosius." —  Rkunakd. 
"  This  sentence,"  says  Dr.  YVhitaker,  "  is  usually  inscribed  in 
Bonie  conspicuous  part  of  the  Cistertiau  houses." 

Page  lOr. 
"  Whom  Obloquy  pursues  witli  hideous  bark." 

The  list  of  foul  names  bestowed  upon  those  poor  creatures 
is  long  and  curious :  —  and,  as  is,  alas!  too  natural,  most  of 
the  opprobrious  appellations  are  drawn  from  circumstances 
into  which  they  were  forced  by  their  persecutors,  who  even 
consolidated  their  miseries  into  one  reproachful  term,  calling 
them  Patarenians,  or  Paturins,  from  j'^ti,  to  suffer. 

Dwellers  with  wolves,  she  names  them,  for  the  pine 
And  green  oak  are  their  covert ;  as  the  gloom 
Of  niglit  oft  foils  their  enemy's  design. 
She  calls  them  Riders  on  the  flying  broom, 
Sorcerers,  whose  frame  and  aspect  have  become 
One  and  the  same  thi-ough  practices  malign. 

Page  111. 

"And  the  green  lizard  and  the  gilded  newt 
Lead  unmolested  lives,  and  die  of  age" 

These  two  lines  are  adopted  from  a  MS.,  written  zbout  the 
year  1770,  which  accidentally  fell  into  my  possession.  The 
close  of  the  preceding  Sonnet  on  monastic  voluptuousness  is 
taken  from  the  same  source,  as  is  the  verse,  "  Where  Venus 
iits,"  &c.,  and  the  line,  "  Once  ye  were  holy,  ye  are  holy  still," 
in  a  subsequent  Sonnet. 

Page  120. 

"  One  (like  those  projihets  whom  God  sent  of  old) 
Transfigured,"  d^-c. 

"M.  Latimer  suffered  his  keeper  very  quietly  to  pull  off  his 


556  NOTES. 

hose,  and  his  other  array,  which  to  loolce  unto  was  very  sim 
pie.  and  being  stripped  into  liis  shrowd,  he  seemed  as  comely 
a  person  to  them  that  were  present,  as  one  should  lightly  see. 
and  whereas  in  his  clothes  hee  appeared  a  withered  and  crooked 
gillie  (weak)  olde  man,  he  now  stood  bold  upright,  as  comely 

a  father  as  one  might  lightly  behold Then  they  brought 

a  faggotte,  kindled  with  fire,  and  laid  the  same  downe  at  Doc- 
tor Ridley's  feet.  To  whome  il.  Latimer  spake  in  this  man- 
mer:  "  Bee  of  good  comfort,  master  Bidley,  and  play  the  man: 
wee  shall  this  day  light  such  a  candle  by  God's  grace  in  Eng- 
land, as  I  trust  shall  never  bee  put  out."  —  Fox's  Acts,  fc. 

Similar  alterations  in  the  outward  figure  and  deportment  of 
persons  brought  to  like  trial  were  not  uncommon.  See  note 
to  the  above  passage  in  Dr.  Wordsworth's  Ecclesiastical  Biog- 
raphy, for  an  example  in  an  humble  Welsh  fisherman. 

Page  123. 

*'  77(6  ffift  exalting,  and  ivith  plcijiful  smile." 

"  On  foot  they  went,  and  took  Salisbury  in  their  way,  pur- 
posely to  see  the  good  Bishop,  who  made  Mr.  Hooker  sit  at  his 
own  table;  which  Sir.  Hooker  boasted  of  with  much  joy  and 
gratitude  when  he  saw  his  mother  and  friends;  and  at  the 
Bishop's  parting  with  him,  the  Bishop  gave  him  good  counsel 
and  his  benediction,  but  forgot  to  give  him  money;  which 
when  the  Bishop  had  considered,  he  sent  a  servant  in  all  haste 
to  call  Richard  back  to  him,  and  at  Richard's  return  the  Bish- 
op said  to  him,  '  Richard,  I  sent  for  you  back  to  lend  ycu  a 
horse  which  hath  carried  me  many  a  mile,  and  I  thank  God 
with  much  ease,'  and  presently  delivered  into  his  hand  a  walk- 
ing-stair,  with  which  he  professed  he  had  travelled  through  many 
parts  of  Germany ;  and  he  said,  '  Richard,  I  do  not  give,  but 
end  you  my  horse;  be  sure  you  be  honest,  an<l  bring  my 
horse  back  to  me,  at  your  return  this  way  to  Oxford.  And  I 
do  now  give  you  ten  groats  to  bear  your  charges  to  Exeter ; 
»nd  here  is  ten  groats  more,  which  T  charge  you  to  deliver  to 
your  mother,  and  tell  her  I  send  her  a  Bisliop's  benediction 
with  it,  and  beg  the  continuance  of  her  prayers  for  me.  And 
J  ron  bring  my  horse  back  to  me,  I  will  give  you  ten  groats 


NOTES.  357 

more  to  carry  you  on  foot  to  the  college;  and  so  God  bless 
TOu,  good  Kichard.' "  —  See  Walton's  Life  of  Richard  Hooker. 

Page  125. 

^''Craftihj  incites 
The  overweening,  personates  the  mad." 

A  common  device  in  religious  and  political  conflicts.  —  See 
Strj'pe,  in  support  of  this  instance. 

Page  127. 

''Laud." 

In  this  age  a  -word  cannot  be  said  in  praise  of  Laud,  or  even 
in  compassion  for  his  fate,  without  incui-ring  a  charge  of  big- 
otry ;  but  fearless  of  such  imputation,  I  concur  with  Hume, 
"  that  it  is  sufficient  for  his  vindication  to  observe  that  liis 
errors  were  the  most  excusable  of  all  those  which  prevailed 
during  that  zealous  period."  A  key  to  the  right  understanding 
of  those  parts  of  liis  conduct  that  brought  the  most  odium  up- 
on him  in  his  own  time,  may  be  found  in  the  following  passage 

of  his  speech  before  the  bar  of  the  House  of  Peers : "  Ever 

since  I  came  in  place,  I  have  labored  nothing  more  than  that 
the  external  public  worship  of  God,  so  much  slighted  in  di- 
vers parts  of  this  kingdom,  might  be  preserved,  and  that  with 
as  much  decency  and  uniformity  as  might  be.  For  I  evident- 
ly saw  that  the  public  neglect  of  God's  service  in  the  outward 
face  of  it,  and  the  nasty  lying  of  many  places  dedicated  to  that 
service,  had  almost  cast  a  damp  upon  the  ti-ue  and  inward  wor- 
thip  of  God,  which  while  we  live  in  the  body  needs  external  helps, 
and  all  little  enough  to  keej)  it  in  any  vigor." 

Page  136. 

"  Tlie  Pilgrim  Fathers." 

American  Episcopacy,  in  union  with  the  Church  in  England, 
trictly  belongs  to  the  general  subject;  and  I  here  make  my 
acknowledgments  to  my  American  friends.  Bishop  Doane,  and 
Mr.  Henry  Reed  jf  Philadelphia,  for  havmg  suggesteil  to  m3 


558  NOTES. 

the  propriety  of  adverting  to  it,  and  pointed  out  the  virtv^.-j 
and  intellectual  qualities  of  Bishop  White,  which  so  eminently 
fitted  him  for  the  great  work  he  undertook.  Bishop  White 
was  consecrated  at  Lambeth,  Feb.  4,  1787,  bj'  Archbishop 
Moore;  and  before  his  long  life  was  closed,  twenty-six  bishops 
had  been  consecrated  in  America,  by  himself.  For  his  char- 
acter and  opinions,  see  his  own  numerous  Works,  and  a  "  Ser- 
mon in  Commemoration  of  him,  by  George  Washington  Doane, 
Bishop  of  New  Jersey." 

Page  139. 

"A  genial  hearth, 

And  a  refined  rnsticity,  belong 
To  tiie  neat  mansioii.^^ 

Among  the  benefits  arising,  as  Sir.  Coleridge  has  well  ob- 
served, from  a  Church  establishment  of  endowments  corre- 
sponding ^\ith  the  wealth  of  the  country  to  which  it  belongs, 
may  be  reckoned  as  eminently  important  the  examples  of 
civilit}'  and  refinement  which  the  clergj'  stationed  at  intervals 
afford  to  the  whole  people.  The  Established  clergy  in  many 
parts  of  England  have  long  been,  as  they  continue  to  be,  the 
principal  bulwark  against  barbarism,  and  the  link  which  unites 
the  sequestered  peasantry  with  the  intellectual  advancement 
of  the  age.  Nor  is  it  below  the  dignity  of  the  subject  to  ob- 
serve, that  their  taste,  as  acting  upon  rural  residences  and 
scenerj',  often  furnishes  models  which  country  gentlemen,  who 
are  more  at  liberty  to  follow  the  caprices  of  fashion,  might 
profit  by.  Tlie  precincts  of  an  old  residence  must  be  treated 
by  ecclesiastics  with  respect,  both  from  prudence  and  neces- 
sity. I  remember  being  much  pleased,  some  years  ago,  at 
Rose  Castle,  the  rural  seat  of  the  See  of  Carlisle,  with  a  style 
of  garden  and  architecture,  wliich,  if  the  place  had  belonged 
to  a  wealthy  layman,  would  no  doubt  have  been  swept  away. 
A  pars(jnage-house  generally  stands  not  far  from  the  church; 
this  proximity  imposes  favorable  restraints,  and  scmetimos 
suggests  an  affecting  union  of  the  accommodations  and  elegan- 
cies (if  life  with  the  outward  signs  of  piety  and  mortality.  With 
Dlensme  I  recall  to  mind  a  happy  instance  of  this  in  the  resi- 


NOTES.  35i) 

.ience  of  an  old  and  much-valued  friend  in  Oxfordshire.  The 
Qouse  and  church  stand  parallel  to  each  other,  at  a  small  dis 
tance ;  a  circular  lawn,  or  rather  grass-plot,  spreads  between 
them;  shrabs  and  trees  curve  from  each  side  of  the  dwelling, 
veiling,  but  not  hiding,  the  church.  From  the  front  of  this  dwell- 
ing, no  part  of  the  burial-ground  is  seen ;  but  as  you  wind  by  the 
side  of  the  shrubs  towards  the  steeple-end  of  the  church,  the 
eye  catches  a  single,  small,  low,  monumental  headstone,  moss 
grown,  sinking  into,  and  gently  inclLniug  towards,  the  earth. 
Advance,  and  the  churchyard,  populous  and  gay  ■with  glitter- 
ing tombstones,  opens  to  the  view.  This  humble  and  beauti- 
ful parsonage  called  forth  a  tribute,  for  which  see  the  seventh 
of  the  "  Miscellaneous  Sonnets,"  Part  III. 

Page  148.    Sonnet  xxxii. 

This  is  still  continued  in  many  churches  in  Westmoreland. 
It  takes  place  in  the  month  of  July,  when  the  floor  of  the  stalls 
is  strewn  with  fresh  rushes;  and  hence  it  is  called  the  "  Rush- 
bearing." 

Page  151. 

"  Teaching  us  to  forget  them  or  forgive." 

This  is  borrowed  from  an  afl^ecting  passage  in  ilr.  George 
Dyer's  History  of  Cambridge. 

Page  152. 

"  Had  we,  like  them,  endured 
Sore  stress  of  apprehension." 

See  Burnet,  who  is  unusually  animated  on  this  subject ;  the 
east  wind,  so  anxiously  expected  and  prayed  for,  was  called 
the  "  Protestant  wind." 

Page  154. 

"  Yet  mil  we  not  conceal  the  precious  Cross, 
Like  men  ashamed." 

I  he  Lutherans  have  retained  the  Cross  withm  their  churches  • 
is  to  be  regi-etted  that  we  have  not  done  the  same. 


360  NOTES. 

Page  158. 

"  Or  Ukt.  Hie  Alpine  Mount,  thai  hikes  its  name 
From  roseate  hues"  SfC. 

Some  say  that  Monte  Rosa  takes  its  name  from  a  belt  ol 
rock  at  its  summit,  —  a  very  unpoeticaJ  and  scarcely  a  prob- 
able supposition. 

Page  172. 

"  Wings  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play," 

In  these  lines  I  am  under  obligation  to  the  exquisite  picture 
of  "Jacob's  Dream,"  by  Mr.  AUston,  now  in  America.  It  is 
pleasant  to  make  this  public  acknowledgment  to  a  man  of 
penius,  whom  I  have  the  honor  to  rank  among  my  friends. 

Page  185. 
"Buti/fhou,  like  Cocytus"  S^c. 

Many  years  ago,  when  I  was  at  Greta  Bridge,  in  Yorkshire, 
the  hostess  of  the  inn,  proud  of  her  skill  in  ety:nology,  said, 
that  "  the  name  of  the  river  was  taken  from  the  bridye,  the 
form  of  which,  as  every  one  must  notice,  exactly  resembled 
a  great  A."  Dr.  Whitaker  has  derived  it  from  the  word  of 
common  occurrence  in  the  North  of  England,  "<o  greet'"  ;  sig- 
nifying to  lament  aloud,  mostly  with  weeping:  a  conjecture 
rendered  more  probable  from  the  stony  and  rocky  channel  of 
both  the  Cumberland  and  Yorkshire  rivers.  The  Cumber.und 
Greta,  though  it  does  not,  among  the  countrj'  people,  take  up 
ihnt  name  till  within  three  miles  of  its  disapjiearance  in  the 
River  Derweiit,  may  be  considered  as  having  its  source  in  the 
mountain  cove  of  Wythbum,  and  flowing  through  Thirlmere, 
the  beautiful  featiires  of  which  lake  are  known  only  to  those 
who,  travelling  between  Grasmere  and  Keswick,  have  quitted 
the  main  road  in  the  vale  of  W^ythburn,  and,  crossing  over  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  lake,  have  proceeded  with  it  on  the 
right  hand. 

The  channel  of  the  Greta,  immediately  above  Keswick,  has, 
*)r  the  purposes  of  building,  been  in  a  great  measure  clenred 


NOTKS.  361 

of  tie  immense  stones  which,  by  their  concussion  in  high 
floods,  produce  the  load  and  awful  noises  described  in  the 
8onnet. 

"  The  scenery  upon  this  river,"  says  Mr.  Southey  in  his  Col- 
loquies, "  where  it  passes  under  the  woody  side  of  Latrigg,  is 
of  the  finest  and  most  remeraberable  kind :  — 

*  Ambiguo  lapsu  refluitque  fluitque, 
Occurrensque  sibi  ventunis  ascipit  undas.' " 

Page  188. 

'■^By  hooded  Votaresses"  (f-c. 

Attached  to  the  church  of  Brigham  was  formerly  a  chantry, 
which  held  a  moiety  of  the  manor;  and  in  the  decayed  parson- 
Rge  some  vestiges  of  monastic  architecture  are  still  to  be  seen. 

Page  189. 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots  landing  at  Workington. 

"  The  fears  and  impatience  of  Mary  were  so  great,"  says 
Robertson,  "  that  she  got  into  a  fisher-boat,  and  with  about 
twenty  attendants  landed  at  Workington,  in  Cumberland;  and 
thence  she  was  conducted  with  many  marks  of  respect  to  Car- 
lisle." The  apartment  in  which  the  Queen  had  slept  at  Work- 
ington Hall  (where  she  was  received  by  Sir  Henrj'  Curven  as 
became  her  rank  and  misfortunes)  was  long  preserved,  out  of 
respect  to  her  memory,  as  she  had  left  it;  but  one  cannot  but 
regret  that  some  necessarj'  alterations  in  the  mansion  could 
not  be  efiected  without  its  destruction. 

Page  190. 

St.  Bees'  Heads,  anciently  called  the  Cliff  of  Baruth,  are  a 
conspicuous  sea-mark  for  aU  vessels  sailing  in  the  northeast 
parts  of  the  Irish  Sea.  In  a  bay,  one  side  of  which  is  formed 
Dy  the  southern  headland,  stands  the  village  of  St.  Bees ;  a 
place  distinguished,  from  very  early  times,  for  its  religious  and 
scholastic  foundations. 


362  KOTKS. 

"St.  Bees,"  sny  Nicholson  and  Burns,  ''had  its  name  from 
Bega,  an  hoh'  woman  from  Ireland,  who  is  said  to  have  founded 
here,  about  the  year  of  our  Lord  650,  a  small  monastery,  where 
after\Tards  a  church  was  built  in  memory  of  her. 

"  The  aforesaid  religious  house,  being  destroyed  by  the 
Danes,  was  restored  by  William  de  Mescliiens,  son  of  Ranulph, 
and  brother  of  Rainilph  de  JNIeschiens,  first  Earl  of  Cumtierland 
after  the  Conquest;  and  made  a  cell  of  a  prior  and  six  Bene- 
dictine monks  to  the  Abbey  of  St.  Mary  at  York.  " 

Several  traditions  of  miracles,  connected  with  the  foundation 
of  the  first  of  these  religious  houses,  survive  among  the  people 
of  the  neighborhood;  one  of  which  is  alluded  to  in  these  Stan- 
zas; and  another,  of  a  somewhat  bolder  and  more  peculiar 
character,  has  furnished  the  subject  of  a  spirited  poem  by  the 
Rev.  R.  Parkinson,  M.  A.,  late  Divinity  Lecturer  of  St.  Bees 
College,  and  now  Fellow  of  the  Collegiate  Church  of  Man 
Chester. 

After  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries.  Archbishop  Grindal 
founded  a  free  school  at  St.  Bees,  from  which  the  counties  of 
Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  have  derived  great  benefit; 
and  recently,  under  the  patronage  of  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  a  col- 
lege has  been  established  there  for  the  education  of  ministers 
for  the  English  Church.  The  old  Conventual  Church  has  been 
repaired,  under  the  superintendence  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ainger,  the 
Head  of  the  College;  and  is  well  worthy  of  being  visited  by 
any  strangers  who  might  be  led  to  the  neighborhood  of  this 
celebrated  spot. 

The  form  of  stanza  in  this  Poem,  and  something  in  the  style 
of  versification,  are  adopted  from  the  "  St.  Monica."  a  poem 
of  much  beauty  upon  a  monastic  subject,  by  Charlctte  Smith: 
a  lady  to  whom  English  verse  is  under  greater  obligations 
than  are  likely  to  be  eitiicr  acknowledged  or  remembei-ed. 
She  wrote  little,  and  that  little  unambitiously,  but  with  true 
feeling  for  rural  nature,  at  a  time  when  nature  was  not  much 
regarded  by  English  Poets;  for  in  point  of  time  her  oarliei 
writinsp  preceded,  I  believe,  those  of  Cowper  and  Bums. 


NOTKS.  3G3 

Page  193. 

^^An  not,  in  sooth,  their  Requiems  sacred  tiesf" 

I  am  aware  that  I  am  here  treading  upon  tender  ground ;  but 
to  the  intelligent  reader  I  feel  that  no  apology  is  due.  Th9 
prayers  of  survivors,  during  passionate  grief  for  the  recent  loss 
af  relatives  and  friends,  as  the  object  of  those  prayers  could  no 
longer  be  the  suffering  body  of  the  dying,  would  naturally  be 
ejaculated  for  the  souls  of  the  departed;  the  barriers  between 
the  two  worlds  dissolving  before  the  power  of  love  and  faith. 
The  ministers  of  religion,  from  their  habitual  attendance  ui:oii 
sick-beds,  would  be  daily  witnesses  of  these  benign  results,  and 
hence  would  be  strongly  tempted  to  aim  at  giving  to  them 
permanence,  by  embodying  them  in  rites  and  ceremonies  re- 
cun-ing  at  stated  periods.  All  this,  as  it  was  in  course  of  nzr- 
ture,  so  was  it  blameless,  and  even  praiseworthy ;  since  some 
of  its  effects,  in  that  rude  state  of  society,  could  not  but  be 
salutary.  Xo  reflecting  person,  however,  can  view  without 
sorrow  the  abuses  which  rose  out  of  thus  formalizing  sublime 
instincts,  and  disinterested  movements  of  passion,  and  pervert- 
ing them  into  means  of  gratifying  the  ambition  and  rapacity 
of  the  priesthood.  But,  while  we  deplore  and  are  mdignant  at 
these  abuses,  it  would  be  a  gi-eat  mistake  if  we  imputed  the 
origin  of  the  offices  to  prospective  selfishness  on  the  part  of 
the  monks  and  clergy:  the;/  were  at  first  sincere  in  their  sym 
pathy,  and  in  their  degree  dupes  rather  of  their  own  creed, 
than  artful  and  designing  men.  Charity  is,  upon  the  whole, 
the  safest  guide  that  we  can  take  in  judging  our  fellow-raen, 
whether  of  past  ages  or  of  the  present  tune. 

Page  199. 

"And  they  are  led  by  noble  Hillary." 

The  Tower  of  Refuge,  an  ornament  to  Douglas  Bay,  was 
erected  chiefly  through  the  humanity  and  zeal  of  Sir  William 
Hillary;  and  he  also  was  the  founder  of  the  life-boat  establish 
cent,  at  that  place ;  by  wliich,  under  his  superintendence,  and 
often  by  his  exertions  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  his  own  life, 
many  seamen  and  passengers  have  been  saved. 


364  NOTES. 

Page  201. 

"  By  a  retired  Mariner." 

This  unpi'etending  sonnet  is  by  a  gentleman  nearly  connected 
with  me,  and  1  hope,  as  it  falls  so  easily  into  its  place,  that  both 
the  writer  and  the  reader  will  excuse  its  appearance  here. 

Page  203. 

"  Off  with  yon  clotid,  old  Snafell !  " 

The  summit  of  this  mountain  is  well  chosen  by  Cowley  as 
the  scene  of  the  "  Vision,"  in  which  the  spectral  angel  dis- 
courses with  him  concerning  the  govenunejit  of  Oliver  Crom- 
well. "  I  found  myself,"  says  he,  "  on  the  top  of  that  famous 
hill  in  the  Island  Mona,  which  has  the  prospect  of  three  great, 
and  not  long  since  most  happy,  kingdoms.  As  soon  as  ever  I 
looked  upon  them,  they  called  forth  the  sad  representation  of 
all  the  sins  and  all  the  miseries  that  had  overwltelmed  them  these 
twenty  years."  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  changes  now  in 
progress,  and  the  passions,  and  the  way  in  which  thej'  work, 
strikingly  resemble  those  which  led  to  the  disasters  the  philo- 
sophic writer  so  feelingly  bewails.  God  grant  that  the  resem- 
blance may  not  become  still  more  striking  as  months  and  years 
advance ! 

Page  205. 

"  On  revisiting  DunoUy  Castle." 

This  ingenious  piece  of  workmanship,  as  I  afterwards  learned, 
had  been  executed  for  their  own  amusement  by  some  labor 
ers  employed  about  the  place. 

Page  209. 

"  Qwe  of  Slaffa." 

The  reader  may  be  tempted  to  exclaim,  "  How  came  this 
and  the  two  following  sonnets  to  be  written,  after  the  dissatis- 
faction expressed  in  the  preceding  one?  "  In  fact,  at  tiic  risk 
of  incurring  the  reiisonablc  displeasure  of  the  master  of  tne 


NOTES.  365 

»team-boat,  I  returned  to  the  cave,  and  explored  it  under  cir- 
cumstances more  favorable  to  those  imaginative  impressions 
which  it  is  so  wonderfully  fitted  to  make  upon  the  mind. 

Page  211. 

"  Hope  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  caxt, 
Children  of  Summer .' " 

Upon  the  head  of  the  columns  which  form  the  front  of  the 
cave,  rests  a  body  of  decomposed  basaltic  matter,  which  was 
richly  decorated  with  that  large  bright  flower,  the  ox-eyed 
daisy.  I  had  noticed  the  same  flower  growing  with  profusion 
among  the  bold  rocks  on  the  western  coast  of  the  Isle  of  Man; 
making  a  brilliant  contrast  with  their  black  and  gloomy  sur- 
faces. 

Page  212. 
"  lona." 

The  four  last  lines  of  this  sonnet  are  adopted  from  a  well- 
known  sonnet  of  Russel,  as  convejnng  my  feeling  better  tlian 
any  words  of  my  own  could  do. 

Page  216. 
"  Yet  fetched  from  Paradise." 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  there  is  more  of  the  poet  than  the  sound 
etjTnologist  in  this  derivation  of  the  name  Eden.  On  the 
western  coast  of  Cumberland  is  a  rivulet  which  enters  the  sea 
at  Moresby,  known  also  in  the  neighborhood  by  the  name  of 
Eden.  May  not  the  latter  syllable  come  from  the  w^ord  Dean,  a 
valley  f  Langdale,  near  Ambleside,  is  by  the  inhabitants  called 
Langden.  The  former  syllable  occurs  in  the  name  Emont,  a 
principal  feeder  of  the  Eden;  and  the  stream  which  flows, 
when  the  tide  is  out,  over  Cartmel  sands,  is  called  the  Ea,  — 
«aa,  French, —  aqua,  Latin. 

Page  219. 

^^ Canal,  and  Viaduct,  and  Jiailicay,  tell.' " 

At  Corby,  a  few  miles  below  Nunnery,  the  Eden  is  crossed  by 
g  magnificent  viaduct;  and  another  of  these  works  is  thrown 


3GG  NOTKS. 

over  a  deep  glen  or  ravine,  at  a  very  sliort  distance  from  the 
main  stream. 

Page  220. 

"A  weight  of  awe,  not  easy  to  be  bo7-ne." 

The  daughters  of  Long  Meg,  placed  in  a  perfect  circle  eighty 
yards  in  diameter,  are  seventy-two  in  number  above  ground ; 
a  little  way  oxat  of  the  circle  stands  Long  Meg  herself,  a  single 
stone,  eighteen  feet  high.  When  I  first  saw  this  monument, 
as  I  came  upon  it  by  surprise,  I  might  overrate  its  importance 
as  an  object;  but,  though  it  will  not  bear  a  comparison  with 
Stonehenge,  I  must  say  I  have  not  seen  any  other  relique  of 
those  dark  ages,  which  can  pretend  to  rival  it  in  singularity 
ajid  dignity  of  appearance. 

Page  221. 

"  To  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale." 

This  sonnet  was  written  immediately  after  certain  trials, 
which  took  place  at  the  Cumberland  Assizes,  when  the  Earl 
of  Lonsdale,  in  consequence  of  repeated  and  long-continued 
attacks  upon  his  character,  through  the  local  press,  had  thought 
it  right  to  prosecute  the  conductors  and  proprietors  of  three 
several  journals.  A  verdict  of  libel  was  given  in  one  case ; 
and,  in  the  others,  the  prosecutions  were  withdrawn,  upon  tlie 
individuals  retracting  and  disavowing  the  charges,  expressing 
regret  that  they  had  been  made,  and  promising  to  abstain  from 
\lie  like  in  future. 

Page  290. 

"  Descending  to  the  woitn  tn  charity." 

I  am  indebted,  here,  to  a  passage  in  one  of  Mr.  Digby's  val- 
uable 'Yorka. 

Page  325. 

''^AU  change  is  perilous  and  all  chance  unsound." 

Spenskb. 


NOTES.  367 

Page  327. 

''Men  of  the  Western  WorW 

These  lines  were  written  several  years  ago,  when  reports 
prevailed  of  cruelties  committed  in  many  parts  of  America, 
by  men  making  a  law  of  their  own  passions.  A  far  more  for- 
midable, as  being  a  more  deliberate  raiscliief,  has  appeared 
among  those  States,  wliich  have  lately  broken  faith  with  the 
public  creditor  in  a  manner  so  infamous.  I  cannot,  however, 
but  look  at  both  evils  under  a  similar  relation  to  inherent  good, 
and  hope  that  the  time  is  not  distant  when  our  brethren  of  the 
West  wUl  wipe  off  this  stain  from  their  name  and  nation. 


I  am  happy  to  add  that  this  anticipation  is  already  partly 
realized ;  and  that  the  reproach  addressed  to  the  Pennsylvani- 
aus  in  the  next  sonnet  is  no  longer  applicable  to  them.  I 
trust  that  those  other  States  to  which  it  may  yet  apply  will 
soon  follow  the  example  now  set  them  by  Philadelphia,  and 
redeem  their  credit  with  the  world. 

1860. 


END    OF    VOL.    rV. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


I. 

EPISTLE 


TO    SIR    GEORGE   HOWLAND    BEAUMONT,   BART. 

From  the  Southwest  Coast  of  Cumberland.  — 1811. 

Far  from  our  home  by  Grasmere's  quiet  Lake, 
From  the  Vale's  peace  which  all  her  fields  partake, 
Here  on  the  bleakest  point  of  Cumbria's  shore 
We  sojourn  stunned  by  Ocean's  ceaseless  roar  ; 
While,  day  by  day,  grim  neighbor !  huge  Black 

Comb 
Frowns,  deepening  visibly  his  native  gloom, 
Unless,  perchance  rejecting  in  despite 
What  on  the  Plain  we  have  of  warmth  and  light, 
In  his  own  storms  he  hides  himself  fi*om  sight. 
Rough  is  the  time  ;  and  thoughts,  that  would  be 

free 
From  heaviness,  oft  fly,  dear  Friend,  to  thee  ; 
Turn  from  a  spot  v.'here  neither  sheltered  road 
iVor  hedge-row  screen  invites  my  ste])s  abroad ; 

VOL.  v.  1 


2  MISCELLAXEOUS    POEMS. 

Where  one  poor  Plane-tree,  having  as  it  might 
Attained  a  stature  twice  a  tall  man's  height, 
Hopeless  of  further  growth,  and  brown  and  sere 
Tiirough  half  the  summer,  stands  with  topcutsheer. 
Like  an  unshifting  weathercock  which  proves 
Hov  cold  the  quarter  that  the  wind  best  loves, 
Or  like  a  sentinel,  that,  evermore, 
Darkening  the  window,  ill  defends  the  door 
Of  this  unfinished  house,  —  a  Fortress  bare, 
Where  sti'ength  has  been  the  Builder's  only  care ; 
Whose  rugged  walls  may  still  for  years  demand 
The  final  polish  of  the  Plasterer's  hand. 

—  This  Dwelling's  Inmate  more  than  three  weeks' 

space 
And  oft  a  Prisoner  in  the  cheerless  place, 
I  —  of  whose  touch  the  fiddle  would  complain, 
\Miose  breath  would  labor  at  the  flute  in  vain, 
In  music  all  unversed,  nor  blessed  with  skill 
A  bridge  to  copy,  or  to  paint  a  mill, 
Tired  of  my  books,  a  scanty  company  ! 
And  tired  of  listening  to  the  boisterous  sea  — 
Pace  between  door  and  window,  muttering  rhyme, 
An  old  resource  to  cheat  a  frovvard  tinie  ! 
Tiiough  these  dull  hours    (mine   is    it,   or    their 

shame  ?) 
Would  tempt  me  to  renounce  that  humble  aim. 

—  But  if  tliere  be  a  Muse  who,  iVee  to  take 
Her  seat  upon  Olympus,  doth  forsake 

Those  heights,  (hke  Phoebus  when  li is  golden  lock? 
He  vviilcd,  attendant  on  Thessalian  Mocks,) 


EPISTLE.  9 

And,  ill  disguise,  a  Milkmaid  with  her  pail 
Trips  down  the  pathways  of  some  winding  daJe  ; 
Or,  like  a  Mermaid,  warbles  on  the  shores 
To  fishers  mending  nets  beside  their  doors  ; 
Or,  Pilgrim-like,  on  forest  moss  reclined, 
Gives  plaintive  ditties  to  the  heedless  wind, 
Or  listens  to  its  play  among  the  boughs 
Above  her  head,  and  so  forgets  her  vows,  — 
If  such  a  Visitant  of  Earth  thei'e  be. 
And  she  would  deign  this  day  to  smile  on  me 
And  aid  my  verse,  content  with  local  bounds 
Of  natural  beauty  and  life's  daily  rounds. 
Thoughts,  chances,  sights,  or  doings,  which  we  telJ 
"Without  reserve  to  those  whom  we  love  well,  — 
Then  haply,  Beaumont !  words  in  current  clear 
Will  flow,  and  on  a  welcome  page  appear 
Duly  before  thy  sight,  unless  they  perish  here. 

What  shall  I  treat  of  ?     News  from  Mona's  Isle  ? 
Such  have  we,  but  unvaried  in  its  style  ; 
No  tales  of  Runagates  fresh  landed,  whence 
And  wherefore  fugitive  or  on  what  pretence ; 
Of  feasts,  or  scandal,  eddying  like  the  wind, 
Most  restlessly  alive  when  most  confined. 
Ask  not  of  me,  whose  tongue  can  best  appease 
The  mighty  tumults  of  the  House  of  Kets  ; 
The  last  year's  cup  whose  Ram  or  Heifer  gained, 
What  slopes  are  planted,  or  what  mosses  drained : 
An  eye  of  fancy  only  can  I  cast 
On  that  proud  pageant  now  at  hand  or  past, 


1  M15CELLANK0US    POKMS. 

When  lull  five  huiulreil  boats  in  trim  ai'i-ay, 
With  nets  and  sails  outspread  and  streamers  gay. 
And  chanted  hymns  and  stiller  voice  of  prayer, 
For  the  old  Manx-harvest  to  the  Deep  repair, 
Soon  as  the  herring-shoals  at  distance  shine, 
Like  beds  of  moonlight  shifting  on  the  brine. 

Mona  from  our  abode  is  daily  seen, 
But  with  a  wilderness  of  waves  between  ; 
And  by  conjecture  only  can  we  speak 
Of  aught  transacted  thei-e  in  bay  or  creek  ; 
No  tidings  reach  us  hence  from  town  or  field. 
Only  faint  news  her  mountain  sunbeams  yield, 
And  some  we  gather  from  the  misty  air, 
And  some  the  hovering  clouds,  our  telegraph,  de- 
clare. 
But  these  poetic  mysteries  I  withhold ; 
For  Fancy  hath  her  fits  both  hot  and  cold. 
And  should  the  colder  fit  with  you  be  on 
When  }ou  might  read,  my  credit  would  be  gone. 

Let  more  substantial  themes  the  pen  engage, 
And  nearer  interests,  culled  from  the  opening  stage 
Of  our  migration.  —  Ere  the  welcome  dawn 
Had  from  the  east  her  silver  star  withdrawn. 
The  Wain  stood  ready,  at  our  Cottage-door, 
Thoughtfully  freighted  with  a  various  store; 
And  long  or  ere  the  uprising  of  the  Sun, 
O'er  d(;\v-d;iniped  dust  our  journey  was  begun, 
k  needful  journey,  under  favoring  skies, 


EPISTLE.  O 

Through  peopled  Vales  ;  yet  something  in  the  guise 
Of  those  old  Patriarchs  when  from  well  to  well 
They  roamed  through    Wastes    where   now   the 
tented  Arabs  dwell. 

Say  first,  to  whom  did  we  the  charge  confide, 
Who  promptly  undertook  the  Wain  to  guide 
Up  many  a  sharply  twining  road  and  down, 
And  over  many  a  wide  hill's  craggy  crown, 
Through  the  quick  turns  of  many  a  hollow  nook, 
And  the  rough  bed  of  many  an  unbridged  brook  ? 
A  blooming  Lass,  —  who  in  her  better  hand 
Bore  a  light  switch,  her  sceptre  of  command 
When,  yet  a  slender  Girl,  she  often  led, 
Skilful  and  bold,  the  horse  and  burdened  sled  * 
From  the  peat-yielding  Moss  on  Gowdar's  head. 
What  could  go  wrong  with  such  a  Charioteer 
For  goods  and  chattels,  or  those  Infants  dear, 
A  Pair  who  smilingly  sat  side  by  side, 
Our  hope  confirming  that  the  salt-sea  tide, 
Whose  free  embi'aces  we  were  bound  to  seek, 
Would  their  lost  strength  restore  and  freshen  the 

pale  cheek  ? 
Such  hope  did  either  Parent  entertain 
Pacing  behind  along  the  silent  lane. 

Blithe  hopes  and  happy  musings  soon  took  fiight, 
For  lo  !  an  uncouth,  melancholy  sight.  — 

*  A  local  word  for  sledge. 


6  MISCELLAXEOrS    POEMS. 

On  a  ureen  bank  a  creature  stood  forlorn, 

Just  lialf  protruded  to  the  light  of  morn, 

Its  liinder  part  concealed  by  hedge-row  thorn. 

Til'-  Figure  called  to  mind  a  beast  of  prey 

Si  lipped  of  its  frightful  powei's  by  slow  decay, 

And,  though  no  longer  upon  rapine  bent, 

Dim  memory  keeping  of  its  old  intent. 

We  started,  looked  again  with  anxious  eyes, 

And  in  that  griesly  object  recognize 

The  Curate's  Dog, —  his  long-tried  friend,  for  they, 

As  well  we  knew,  together  had  grown  gray. 

The  Master  died,  his  drooping  servant's  grief 

Found  at  the  Widow's  feet  some  sad  relief; 

Yet  still  he  lived  in  pining  discontent. 

Sadness  which  no  indulgence  could  pi'event ; 

Hence  whole  day  wanderings,  broken  nightly  sleeps. 

And  lonesome  watch  that  out  of  doors  he  keeps  ; 

Not  oftentimes,  I  trust,  as  we,  poor  brute  ! 

Espied  him  on  his  legs  sustained,  blank,  mute, 

And  of  all  visible  motion  destitute, 

So  that  the  very  heaving  of  his  breath 

Seemed  stopped,  though  by  some  other  power  than 

death. 
Long  as  we  gazed  upon  tlje  form  and  face, 
A  mild  domestic  pity  kept  its  place, 
Unscared  by  thronging  fancies  of  strange  hue 
That  haunted  us  in  spite  of  wliat  we  knew. 
Kven  now  I  sometimes  think  of  him  as  lost 
In  second-sight  appearances,  or  crost 
hy  spectral  shapes  of  guilt,  or  to  the  ground 


EPISTLE.  7 

On  which  he  stood  by  spells  uniuitural  bour.d, 
Like  a  gaunt,  shaggy  Porter,  forced  to  wait 
In  days  of  old  romance  at  Archimago's  gate. 

Advancing  Summer,  Nature's  law  fulfilled, 
The  choristers  in  every  grove  had  stilled  ; 
But  we,  we  lacked  not  music  of  our  own, 
For  lightsome  Fanny  had  thus  early  thrown, 
'Mid  the  gay  prattle  of  those  infant  tongues, 
Some  notes  prelusive,  from  the  round  of  songs 
With  which,  more  zealous  than  the  liveHest  bird 
That  in  wild  Arden's  brakes  was  ever  heard. 
Her  work  and  her  work's  partners  she  can  cheer 
The  whole  day  long,  and  all  days  of  the  year. 

Thus  gladdened,  from  our  own  dear  Vale  we  pass, 
And  soon  apjjroach  Diana's  Looking-glass  ! 
To  Loughrigg  Tarn,  round,  clear,  and  bright  as 

heaven, 
Such  name  Italian  fancy  would  have  given, 
Ere  on  its  banks  the  few  srrav  cabins  rose 
That  yet  disturb  not  its  concealed  repose 
More  than  the  feeblest  wind  that  idly  blows. 

Ah,  Beaumont !  when  an  opening  in  the  road 
Stopped  me  at  once  by  charm  of  what  it  showed, 
The  encircling  region  vividly  exprest 
Within  the  mirror's  depth,  a  world  at  rest,  — 
Sky  streaked  with  purple,  grove  and  craggy  hield* 

*  A  word  common  in  the  country,  signifying  shelter,  as  in 
Scotland. 


8  MISCELLANEOUS    POKMS. 

And  the  smooth  green  of  many  a  pendent  field, 

And,  quieted  and  soothed,  a  torrent  small, 

A  little,  daring  would-be  waterfall, 

One  chimney  smoking  and  its  azure  wreath, 

Associate  all  in  the  calm  Pool  beneath, 

With  here  and  there  a  faint  imperfect  gleam 

Of  water-lilies  veiled  in  misty  steam,  — 

What  wonder,  at  this  hour  of  stillness  deep, 

A  shadowy  link  'tween  wakefulness  and  sleep, 

When  Nature's  self,  amid  such  blending,  seems 

To  render  visible  her  own  soft  dreams. 

If,  mixed  with  what  appeared  of  rock,  lawn,  wood. 

Fondly  embosomed  in  the  tranquil  flood, 

A  glimpse  I  caught  of  that  abode,  by  thee 

Designed  to  rise  in  humble  privacy, 

A  lowly  dwelling,  here  to  be  outspread, 

Like  a  small  hamlet,  with  its  bashful  head 

Half  hid  in  native  trees.     Alas  !  't  is  not, 

Nor  ever  was  ;  I  sighed,  and  left  the  spot 

Unconscious  of  its  own  untoward  lot. 

And  thought  in  silence,  with  regret  too  keen, 

Of  unexperienced  joys  that  might  have  been  ; 

Of  neighborhood  and  interminirling  arts, 

And  golden  summer  days  uniting  cheerful  hearts. 

But  time,  irrevocable  time,  is  flown. 

And  let  us  utter  thanks  for  blessings  sown 

And  reaped,  —  what  hath  been, and  whatis,our  own. 

Not  far  we  travelled  ere  a  shout  of  glee, 
St^rtliiig  us  all,  dispersed  my  reverie  ; 


EPISTLE.  9 

Such  shout  as,  many  a  sportive  echo  meeting, 

OfUimes  from  Alpine  chalets  sends  a  greeting. 

Whence  the  blithe  hail  ?  behold  a  Peasant  stand 

On  high,  a  kerchief  waving  in  her  hand ! 

Not  unexpectant  that  by  early  day 

Our  httle  Band  would  thrid  this  mountain  way, 

Before  her  cottage  on  the  bright  hill-side 

She  hath  advanced  with  hope  to  be  descried. 

Right  gladly  answering  signals  we  displayed, 

Moving  along  a  tract  of  morning  shade, 

And  vocal  wishes  sent  of  like  good-will 

To  our  kind  Friend  high  on  the  sunny  hill,  — 

Luminous  region,  fair  as  if  the  prime 

Were  tempting  all  astir  to  look  aloft  or  climb ; 

Only  the  centre  of  the  shining  cot 

With  door  left  open  makes  a  gloomy  spot, 

Emblem  of  those  dark  corners  sometimes  found 

Within  the  happiest  breast  on  earthly  ground. 

Rich  prospect  left  behind  of  stream  and  vale, 
And  mountain-tops,  a  barren  ridge  we  scale  ; 
Descend  and  reach,  in  Yewdale's  depths,  a  plain 
With  haycocks   studded,   striped  with  yellowing 

grain,  — 
An  area  level  as  a  Lake,  and  spread 
Under  a  rock  too  steep  for  man  to  tread, 
Where,  sheltered  from  the  north  and  bleak  north- 
west. 
Aloft  the  Raven  hangs  a  visible  nest. 
Fearless  of  all  assaults  that  would  her  brood  molest 


10  iiiscfc;LLAX7.oi:s  roicMs. 

Hot  sunbeams  fill  the  steaming  vale  ;  but  hark, 
At  our  approach,  a  jealous  watch-dog's  bark, 
Noise  that  brings  forth  no  liveried  Page  of  state, 
But  the  whole  household,  that  our  coming  wait. 
With  Young  and  Old  warm  greetings  we  exchange, 
And  jocund  smiles,  and  toward  the  lowly  Grange 
Press  forward,  by  the  teasing  dogs  unscared. 
Entering,  we  find  the  morning  meal  prepared  : 
So  down  we  sit,  though  not  till  each  had  cast 
Pleased  looks  around  the  delicate  repast,  — 
Rich  cream,  and  snow-white  eggs  fresh  from  the  nest, 
With  amber  honey  from  the  mountain's  breast ; 
Strawberries  from  lane  or  woodland,  offering  wild 
Of  children's  industry,  in  hillocks  piled  ; 
Cakes  for  the  nonce,  and  butter  fit  to  lie 
Upon  a  lordly  dish  ;  fiank  hospitality 
Where  simple  ai-t  with  bounteous  nature  vied, 
And  cottage  comfort  shunned  not  seemly  pride. 

Kind  Hostess  !   Handmaid  also  of  the  feast, 
If  thou  be  lovelier  than  the  kindling  East, 
Words  by  thy  presence  unrestrained  may  speak 
Of  a  perpetual  dawn  from  brow  and  cheek 
Instinct  with  light  whose  sweetest  promise  lies, 
Never  retiring,  in  thy  large,  dark  eyes, — 
Dark,  but  to  every  geiitle  feeling  true. 
As  if  their  lustre  flowed  from  ether's  purest  blue. 

Let  me  not  ask  what  tears  may  have  been  wept 
^y  those  bright  eyes,  what  weaiy  vigils  kept, 


EPISTLE.  11 

Beside  that  hearth  what  sighs  may  have  been  heaveil 

For  wounds  inflicted,  nor  what  toil  relieved 

By  fortitude  and  patience,  and  the  grace 

Of  Heaven  in  pity  visiting  the  place. 

Not  unadvisedly  those  secret  springs 

I  leave  nnsearched  :  enough  that  memory  clings, 

Here  as  elsewhere,  to  notices  that  make 

Their  own  significance  for  hearts  awake, 

To  rural  incidents,  whose  genial  powers 

Filled  with  delight  three  summer  morning  hours. 

More  could  my  pen  report  of  grave  or  gay 
That  through  our  gypsy  travel  cheered  the  way  ; 
But.  bursting  forth  above  the  waves,  the  Sun 
Laughs  at  ray  pains,  and  seems  to  say,  "  Be  done." 
Yet,  Beaumont,  thou  wilt  not,  I  trust,  reprove 
This  humble  offering  made  by  Truth  to  Love, 
Nor  chide  the  Muse  that  stooped  to  break  a  spell 
Which  might  have  else  been  on  me  yet :  — 

Farewell. 

JSfote.  — LouGHRiGG  Taen,  alluded  to  in  the  foregoing  Epis- 
tle, resembles,  though  much  smaller  in  compass,  the  Luke 
Nemi,  or  Sjieculum  Diance  as  it  is  often  called,  not  only  in  its 
clear  waters  and  circular  form,  and  the  beauty'  immediately 
surrounding  it,  but  also  as  being  overlooked  by  the  eminence 
of  Langdale  Pikes,  as  Lake  Nemiis  by  that  of  Jlonte  Calvo. 
Since  this  Epistle  was  written,  Loughrigg  Tarn  has  lost  much 
of  its  beauty  by  the  felling  of  many  natural  clumps  of  wood, 
relics  of  the  old  forest,  particularly  upon  the  farm  called  "  1  he 
Oaks,"  from  the  abundance  of  that  tree  which  grew  there. 

It  is  to  be  regretted,  upon  public  grounds,  that  Sir  George 
Beaumont  did  not  carry  into  effect  his  intention  of  constructing 


12  MISCELLAXKOUS    POEMS. 


UPON   PERUSING  THE  FOREGOING  EPISTLE  THIR- 
TY  TEARS    AFTER    ITS    COMPOSITION. 

Soon  did  the  Almighty  Giver  of  all  rest 
Take  those  dear  young  Ones  to  a  fearless  nest ; 
And  in  Death's  arms  has  long  reposed  the  Friend 
For  whom  this  simple  Register  was  penned. 
Thanks  to  the  moth  that  spared  it  for  our  eyes ; 
And  Strangers  even  the  slighted  Scroll  may  prize, 
Moved  by  the  touch  of  kindred  sympathies. 
For,  save  the  calm  repentance  sheds  o'er  strife 
Raised  by  remembrances  of  misused  life. 
The  light  from  past  endeavors  purely  willed 
And  by  Heaven's  favor  happily  fulfilled,  — 
Save  hope  that  we,  yet  bound  to  Earth,  may  share 
The  joys  of  the  Departed,  —  what  so  fair 
As  blameless  pleasure,  not  without  some  tears. 
Reviewed  through  Love's  transparent  veil  of  years  ? 

here  Ji  summer  retreat  in  the  style  I  have  clescri))eil ;  a?  his 
tafste  woiikl  have  set  an  example  how  hniklinjrs,  with  all  the 
accommodations  modern  society  requires,  might  be  introduced 
*ven  into  the  most  secluded  parts  of  this  country  without  in- 
juring their  native  character.  The  design  was  not  ahandoni^l 
from  failure  of  inclination  on  his  part,  but  in  consequence  of 
local  untowardness  which  need  not  be  particularized. 


GOLD    AND    SILVER    FISHES    IN    A    VASE. 


13 


II. 

GOLD  AND  SILVER  FISHES  IN  A  VASE. 

The  soaring  lark  is  blest  as  proud 

When  at  heaven's  gate  she  sings  ; 
The  roving  bee  proclaims  aloud 

Her  flight  by  vocal  wings  ; 
While  ye,  in  lasting  durance  pent, 

Your  silent  lives  employ 
For  something  more  than  dull  content, 

Though  haply  less  than  joy. 

Yet  might  your  glassy  prison  seem 

A  place  where  joy  is  known. 
Where  golden  flash  and  silver  gleam 

Have  meanings  of  their  own  ; 
While,  high  and  low,  and  all  about, 

Your  motions,  glittering  Elves  ! 
Ye  weave,  —  no  danger  from  without, 

And  peace  among  yourselves. 

Type  of  a  sunny  human  breast 

Is  your  transparent  cell ; 
Where  Fear  is  but  a  transient  guest, 

No  sullen  Humors  dwell ; 
Where,  sensitive  of  every  ray 

That  smites  this  tiny  sea, 
Your  scaly  panoplies  repay 

The  loan  with  usury. 


M  MISCELLAXr.OCS    POEMS. 

How  beautiful !  —  Yet  none  knows  why 

This  ever-graceful  change, 
Renewed,  renewed  incessantly, 

Within  your  quiet  range. 
Is  it  that  ye  with  conscious  skill 

For  mutual  pleasure  glide  ; 
And  sometimes,  not  without  your  will. 

Are  dwarfed,  or  magnified  ? 

Fays,  Genii  of  gigantic  size  ! 

And  now,  in  twilight  dim. 
Clustering  like  constellated  eyes, 

In  wings  of  Cherubim, 
When  the  fierce  orbs  abate  their  glare  ;  - 

Whate'er  your  forms  express, 
Wliate'er  ye  seem,  whate'er  ye  are,  — 

All  leads  to  gentleness. 


Cold  though  your  nature  be,  't  is  pure ; 

Your  birthright  is  a  fence 
From  all  that  haughtier  kinds  endure 

Through  tyranny  of  sense. 
Ah  !  not  alone  by  colors  bright 

Are  ye  to  heaven  alHed, 
Wiien,  like  essential  forms  of  light. 

Ye  mingle,  or  divide. 

For  day-dreams  soft  as  e'er  beguiled 
Day-thoughts  while  limbs  rejmse; 

For  moonlight  fascinations  mild, 
Your  gift,  ere  shutters  close, — 


LIBERTY.  1 5 

Accept,  mute  Captives  !  thanks  and  praise ; 

And  may  this  tribute  prove 
Tliat  orentle  admirations  raise 


Delight  resembhng  love. 


1839. 


III. 

LIBERTY. 

(sequel  to  the  pkeceding.) 

[Addressed  to  a  friend;  tlie  gold  and  silver  fishes  having 
been  removed  to  a  pool  in  the  pleasure-ground  of  Rydal 
Mount.] 

"  The  liberty  of  a  people  consists  in  being  governed  by  laws 
•which  they  have  made  for  themselves,  under  whatever  form  it 
be  of  government.  The  liberty  of  a  private  man,  in  being 
master  of  his  own  time  and  actions,  as  far  as  may  consist  with 
the  laws  of  God  and  of  his  countiy.  Of  this  latter  we  are  hei-e 
to  discourse."  —  Cowley. 

Those  breathing  Tokens  of  your  kind  regard, 
(Su.-pect  not,  Anna,  that  their  fate  is  hard  ; 
Not  soon  does  aught  to  which  mild  fancies  cling 
In  lonely  spots,  become  a  slighted  thing,) 
Those  silent  Inmates  now  no  longer  share, 
Nor  do  they  need,  our  hospitable  care, 
Removed  in  kindness  from  their  glassy  Cell 
To  the  fresh  waters  of  a  living  Well, — 
An  elfin  pool  so  sheltered  that  its  rest 
No  winds  disturb  ;  the  mirror  of  whose  breast 
^s  smooth  as  clear,  save  where  with  dimples  small 


IC  Misci:i-LANi:ous  pokjis. 

A  fly  may  settle,  or  a  blossom  fall. 

—  There  swims,  of  blazing  sun  and  beating  shower 

Fearless,  (but  how  obscured  !)  the  golden  Power, 

Tha."  from  this  bauble  prison  used  to  cast 

Gleams  by  the  richest  jewel  unsurpast ; 

And  near  him,  darkling  like  a  sullen  Gnome, 

The  silver  Tenant  of  the  crystal  dome  ; 

Dissevered  both  from  all  the  mysteries 

Of  hue  and  altering  shape  that  charmed  all  eyes. 

Alas!   they  pined,   they   languished   while    they 

shone ; 
And,  if  not  so,  what  matters  beauty  gone 
And  admiration  lost,  by  change  of  place 
That  brings  to  the  inward  creature  no  disgrace? 
But  if  the  change  restore  his  birthright,  then, 
Whate'er  the  difference,  boundless  is  the  gain. 
Who  can  divine  what  impulses  from  God 
Reach  the  caged  lark,  within  a  town  abode. 
From  his  poor  inch  or  two  of  daisied  sod  ? 
O  yield  him  back  his  privilege  !  —  No  sea 
Swells  like  the  bosom  of  a  man  set  free  ; 
A  wilderness  is  rich  with  liberty. 
Roll  on,  ye  spouting  whales,  who  die  or  keep 
Your  independence  in  the  fathomless  Deep! 
Spread,  tiny  nautilus,  the  living  sail  ; 
Dive,  at  thy  choice,  or  brave  the  freshening  gale ! 
If  unreproved  the  ambitious  eagle  mount 
Sunward  to  seek  the  daylight  in  its  fount, 
Bays,  gulf«!,  and  ocean's  Indian  width  shall  be, 
Fill  tli(!  world  perishes,  a  field  for  thee ! 


LIBERTT. 


17 


"While  musing  here  I  sit  in  shadow  cool, 
And  watch  these  mute  Companions,  in  the  pool 
(Among  reflected  boughs  of  leafy  trees) 
By  glimpses  caught,  disporting  at  their  ease, 
Enlivened,  braced,  by  hardy  luxuries, 
I  ask  what  warrant  fixed  them  (like  a  spell 
Of  witchcraft  fixed  them)  in  the  crystal  cell  ; 
To  wheel  with  languid  motion  round  and  round, 
Beautiful,  yet  in  mournful  durance  bound. 
Tlieir  peace,  perhaps,  our  lightest  footfall  marred  ; 
On  their  quick  sense  our  sweetest  music  jarred ; 
And  whither  could  they  dart,  if  seized  with  fear  ? 
No  sheltering  stone,  no  tangled  root  was  near. 
When  fire  or  taper  ceased  to  cheer  the  room. 
They  wore  away  the  night  in  starless  gloom  ; 
And,  when  the  sun  first  dawned  upon  the  streams, 
How  faint  their  portion  of  his  vital  beams  ! 
Thus,  and  unable  to  complain,  they  fared, 
"While  not  one  joy  of  ours  by  them  was  shared. 

Is  there  a  cherished  bird  (I  venture  now 
To  snatch  a  sprig  from  Chaucer's  reverend  brow}  — • 
Is  there  a  brilliant  fondling  of  the  cage. 
Though  sure  of  plaudits  on  his  costly  stage. 
Though  fed  wdth  dainties  from  the  snow-white  hand 
Of  a  kind  mistress,  fairest  of  the  land, 
But  gladly  would  escape ;  and,  if  need  were. 
Scatter  the  colors  from  the  plumes  that  bear 
The  emancipated  captive  througli  blithe  air 
tnto  strange  woods,  where  he  at  large  may  live 

VOL.  V.  2 


18  MISCELLANEOUS    TOEMS 

On  best  or  worst  which  they  and  Natui-e  give  ? 

The  beetle  loves  his  unpretending  track, 

The  snail  the  house  he  carries  on  his  back ; 

The  ftir-fetched  worm  with  pleasure  would  disown 

The  bed  we  give  him,  though  of  softest  down  ; 

A  noble  instinct ;  in  all  kinds  the  same, 

All  ranks  !     What  Sovereign,  worthy  of  tlie  name, 

If  doomed  to  breathe  against  his  lawful  will 

An  element  that  flatters  him  —  to  kill, 

But  would  rejoice  to  barter  outward  show 

For  the  least  boon  that  freedom  can  bestow  ? 

But  most  the  Bard  is  true  to  inborn  right. 
Lark  of  the  dawn,  and  Philomel  of  night, 
Exults  in  freedom,  can  with  rapture  vouch 
For  the  dear  blessings  of  a  lowly  couch, 
A  natural    meal, — days,  months,   from  Nature's 

hand ; 
Time,  place,  and  business,  all  at  his  command  !  — 
Wiio  bends  to  happier  duties,  who  more  wise, 
Than  the  industrious  Poet,  taught  to  prize 
Above  all  grandeur  a  pure  life  uncrossed 
By  cares  in  which  simplicity  is  lost? 
That  life,  the  flowery  path  that  winds  by  stealth, 
Which  Horace  needed  for  his  spirit's  health ; 
Sighed  for,  in  heart  and  genius,  overcome 
By  noise  and  strife,  and  questions  wearisome, 
And  the  vain  sidendors  of  Imperial  Rome?  — 
Let  easy  mirth  his  social  hours  inspire, 
And  fiction  animate  his  sportive  lyre, 
A-ttuned  to  verse  that,  crowning  light  Distress 


LIBERTY.  19 

With  garlands,  cheats  her  into  happiness  ; 
Give  me  the  humblest  note  of  those  sad  strains 
Drawn  forth  by  pressure  of  his  gilded  chains, 
As  a  chance  sunbeam  from  his  memory  fell 
Upon  the  Sabine  farm  he  loved  so  well ; 
Or  when  the  prattle  of  Blandusia's  spring 
Haunted  his  ear,  —  he  only  listening,  — 
He  proud  to  please,  above  all  rivals,  fit 
To  win  the  palm  of  gayety  and  wit ; 
He,  doubt  not,  with  involuntary  dread, 
Shrinking  from  each  new  favor  to  be  shed, 
By  the  world's  Ruler,  on  his  honored  head ! 

In  a  deep  vision's  intellectual  scene, 
Such  earnest  longings  and  regrets  as  keen 
Depressed  the  melancholy  Cowley,  laid 
Under  a  fancied  yew-tree's  luckless  shade ; 
A  doleful  bower  for  penitential  song,  ' 
Where  Man  and  Muse  complained  of  mutual  wrong 
While  Cam's  ideal  current  glided  by, 
And  antique  towers  nodded  their  foreheads  high, 
Citadels  dear  to  studious  privacy. 
But  Fortune,  who  had  long  been  used  to  sport 
With  this  tried  Servant  of  a  thankless  Court, 
Relenting  met  his  wishes  ;  and  to  you 
The  remnant  of  his  days  at  least  was  true  ; 
You,  whom,  though  long  deserted,  he  loved  best ; 
You,  Muses,  books,  fields,  liberty,  and  rest ! 

Far  happier  they  who,  fixing  hope  and  aim 
Oil  the  humanities  of  peaceful  fame. 


20  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Enter  betimes  with  more  than  martial  fire 
The  generous  course,  aspire,  and  still  aspire : 
Upheld  by  warnings  heeded  not  too  late, 
Stifle  the  contradictions  of  their  fate, 
And  to  one  purpose  cleave,  their  Being's  godlike 
mate  ! 

Thus,  gifted  Friend,  but  witli  the  placid  brow 
That  woman  ne'er  should  forfeit,  keep  thy  vow  ; 
With  modest  scorn  reject  whate'er  would  blind 
The  ethereal  eyesight,  cramp  the  winged  mind  ! 
Tlien,  Avith  a  blessing  granted  from  above 
To  every  act,  word,  thought,  and  look  of  love, 
Life's  book  for  Thee  may  lie  unclosed,  till  age 
Shall  with  a  thankful  tear  bedrop  its  latest  page.* 

1829. 

*  There  is  jiow,  alas!  no  possibility  of  the  anticipation, 
with  which  the  above  Epistle  concludes,  being  realized:  nor 
were  the  verses  ever  seen  by  the  Individual  for  whom  they 
were  intended.  She  accompanied  her  husband,  the  Rev.  Wm 
Fletcher,  to  India,  and  died  of  cholera,  at  the  age  of  thirty-two 
or  tliirty-three  years,  on  her  way  from  Shalapore  to  Bombay, 
deeply  lamented  by  all  who  knew  her. 

Her  enthusiasm  was  ardent,  lier  piety  steadfast;  anrf  her 
great  talents  would  have  enabled  her  to  be  eminently  useful 
in  the  difficult  path  of  life  to  which  she  had  been  called.  The 
opinion  she  entertained  of  her  own  performances,  given  to  the 
world  under  lier  maiden  name,  Jewsbuiy,  was  modest  and 
numble,  and,  indeed,  far  below  their  merits;  as  is  often  the 
case  with  those  who  arc  making  trial  of  thoir  powers,  with  a 
hope  to  discover  what  they  are  best  fitted  for.  In  one  quality 
na'.uely,  quickness  in  the  motions  of  her  mind,  she  had,  within 
Uie  range  of  the  Author's  acquaintance,  no  equal. 


POOli    ROBIN.  21 

IV. 

POOR  ROBIN.* 

N^OW  when  the  primrose  makes  a  splendid  show, 
And  lilies  face  the  March-winds  in  full  blow, 
And  humbler  growths,  as  moved  with  one  desire, 
Put  on,  to  welcome  spring,  their  best  attire, 
Poor  Robin  is  yet  flowerless  ;  but  how  gay 
With  his  red  stalks  upon  this  sunny  day  ! 
And,  as  his  tufts  of  leaves  he  spreads,  content 
With  a  hard  bed  and  scanty  nourishment. 
Mixed  with  the  green,  some  shine  not  lacking  power 
To  rival  summer's  brightest  scarlet  flower  ; 
And  flowers  they  well  might  seem  to  passers-by 
If  looked  at  only  with  a  careless  eye  ; 
Flowers,  —  or  a  richer  produce  (did  it  suit 
The  season),  sprinklings  of  ripe  strawberry  fruit. 

But  while  a  thousand  pleasures  come  unsought, 
Why  fix  upon  his  wealth  or  want  a  thought  ? 
Is  the  string  touched  in  prelude  to  a  lay 
Of  pretty  fancies  that  would  round  him  play 
When  all  the  world  acknowledged  elfin  sway  ? 
Or  does  it  suit  our  humor  to  commend 
Poor  Robin  as  a  sure  and  crafty  friend, 
Whose  practice  teaches,  spite  of  names  to  show 
Bright  colors  whether  they  deceive  or  no  ?  — 

*  The  small  wild  Geranium  known  by  that  name. 


22  MISCELLANICOUS    POEMS. 

Nay,  \v«  would  simply  praise  the  free  good-will 
With  which,  though  slighted,  he,  on  naked  hill 
Or  in  warm  valley,  seeks  his  part  to  fill ; 
Cheerful  alike  if  bare  of  flowers  as  now, 
Or  when  his  tiny  gems  shall  deck  his  brow  : 
Yet  more,  we  wish  that  men  by  men  despised, 
And  such  as  lift  their  foreheads  overprized, 
Should  sometimes  think,  where'er  they  chance  to  spy 
This  child  of  Nature's  own  humility, 
Wliat  recompense  is  kept  in  store  or  left 
For  all  that  seem  neglected  or  bereft ; 
With  what  nice  care  equivalents  are  given ; 
How  just,  how  bountiful,  the  hand  of  Heaven. 

Makch,  1840. 


V. 

THE   GLEANER. 
(suggested  by  a  picture.) 

That  happy  gleam  of  vernal  eyes, 
Those  locks  from  summer's  golden  skies, 

Tliat  o'er  thy  brow  are  shed  ; 
That  cheek,  —  a  kindling  of  the  morn,  — 
That  lip,  —  a  rose-bud  from  the  thorn,  — 

I  saw  ;  and  Fancy  sped 
To  scenes  Arcadian,  whispering,  through  soft  air, 
()\'  bliss  that  grows  without  a  care, 


THE    GLEANER.  28 

And  liappiness  that  never  flies,  — 
(How  can  it  where  love  never  dies  ?)  — 
Whispering  of  promise,  where  no  bliglit 
Can  reach  the  innocent  delight ; 
Where  pity,  to  the  mind  conveyed 
In  pleasure,  is  the  darkest  shade 
That  Time,  unwrinkled  grandsire,  flings 
From  his  smoothly  gliding  wings. 

What  mortal  form,  what  earthly  face, 
Inspired  the  pencil,  lines  to  trace, 
And  mingle  colors,  that  should  breed 
Such  rapture,  nor  want  power  to  feed ; 
For  had  thy  charge  been  idle  flowers, 
Fair  Damsel  !  o'er  my  captive  mind. 
To  truth  and  sober  reason  blind, 
'Mid  that  soft  air,  those  long-lost  bowers, 
The  sweet  illusion  might  have  hung,  for  houi^ 

Thanks  to  this  tell-tale  sheaf  of  corn, 

That  touchingly  bespeaks  thee  bora 

Life's  daily  tasks  with  them  to  share 

Who,  whether  from  their  lowly  bed 

They  rise,  or  rest  the  weary  head. 

Ponder  the  blessing  they  entreat 

From  Heaven,  and  feel  what  they  repeat, 

While  they  give  utterance  to  the  prayer 

That  asks  for  daily  bread. 

1828. 


24  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

VI. 

TO  A  REDBREAST—  (in  sicksbss). 

Stay,  little  cheerful  Robin  !  stay, 

And  at  my  casement  sing, 
Though  it  should  prove  a  farewell  lay 

And  this  our  parting  spring. 

Though  I,  alas !  may  ne'er  enjoy 

The  promise  in  thy  song, 
A  charm,  thai  thought  cannot  destroy, 

Doth  to  thy  strain  belong. 

Methinks  that  in  my  dying  hour 
Thy  song  would  still  be  dear. 

And  with  a  more  than  earthly  power 
My  passing  Spirit  cheer. 

Then,  little  Bird,  this  boon  confer : 
Come,  and  my  requiem  sing, 

Nor  fail  to  be  the  harbinger 
Of  everlasting  Spring. 


S.   H. 


VII. 


I  KNOW  an  aged  Man  constrained  to  dwell 
In  a  hirge  house  of  public  cliarity, 


I   KNOW    AN    AGED    MAN.  25 

Where  he  abides,  as  in  a  Prisoner's  cell, 
With  numbers  near,  alas  !  no  company. 

When  he  could  creep  about,  at  will,  though  pool 
And  forced  to  live  on  alms,  this  old  Man  fed 
A  Redbreast,  one  that  to  his  cottage  door 
Came  not,  but  in  a  lane  partook  his  bread. 

There,  at  the  root  of  one  particular  tree, 
An  easy  seat  this  worn-out  Laborer  found, 
"While  Robin  pecked  the  crumbs  upon  his  knee 
Laid  one  by  one,  or  scattered  on  the  ground. 

Dear  intercourse  was  theirs,  day  after  day ; 
What  signs  of  mutual  gladness  when  they  met ! 
Think  of  their  common  peace,  their  simple  play, 
The  parting  moment  and  its  fond  regret. 

Months  passed  in  love  that  failed  not  to  fulfil, 
In  spite  of  season's  change,  its  own  demand. 
By  fluttering  pinions  here  and  busy  bill ; 
There  by  caresses  from  a  tremulous  hand. 

Thus  in  the  chosen  spot  a  tie  so  strong 

"Was  formed  between  the  solitary  pair. 

That,  when  his  fate  had  housed  him  'mid  a  throng, 

The  Captive  shunned  all  converse  proffered  there. 

Wife,  children,  kindred,  they  were  dead  and  gone  ; 
But,  if  no  evil  hap  his  wishes  crossed, 


26  MISCELLANEOUS    POK.AtS. 

One  living  Stay  was  left,  and  on  that  one 
Some  recompense  for  all  that  he  had  lost. 

O  that  the  good  old  Man  had  power  to  prove, 
By  message  sent  through  air  or  visihle  token, 
That  still  he  loves  the  Bird,  and  still  must  love ; 
That  friendship  lasts  though  fellowship  is  broken  ! 

1846. 


VIII. 

SONNET. 

(to  an  octogenarian.) 

Affections  lose  their  object ;  Time  brings  forth 
No  successors  ;  and,  lodged  in  memory. 
If  love  exist  no  longer,  it  must  die,  — 
Wanting  accustomed  food,  must  pass  from  earth, 
Or  never  hope  to  reach  a  second  birth. 
This  sad  belief,  the  happiest  that  is  left 
To  thousands,  share  not  thou  ;  howe'er  bereft. 
Scorned,  or  neglected,  fear  not  such  a  dearth. 
Tiicnigh  poor  and  destitute  of  friends  thou  art. 
Perhaps  the  sole  survivor  of  thy  race. 
One  to  whom  Heaven  assigns  that  mournful  part 
The  utmost  solitude  of  age  to  face, 
Still  shall  be  left  some  corner  of  the  heart 
Where  Love  for  living  Thing  can  find  a  place. 

184« 


FLOATING    ISLAND.  27 

IX. 

FLOATING  ISLAND 

These  lines  are  by  the  Author  of  the  Address  to  the  Wind, 
fcc,  published  heretofore  along  with  my  Poems.  Those  to  a 
Redbreast  are  by  a  deceased  female  Relative. 

Harmonious  Powers  with  Nature  work 
On  sky,  earth,  river,  lake,  and  sea  ; 
Sunshine  and  cloud,  whirlwind  and  breeze, 
All  in  one  duteous  task  agree. 

Once  did  I  see  a  slip  of  earth 

(By  throbbing  waves  long  undermined) 

Loosed  from  its  hold  ;  how,  no  one  knew, 

But  all  might  see  it  float,  obedient  to  the  wind ; 

Might  see  it,  from  the  mossy  shore 

Dissevered,  float  upon  the  Lake, 

Float  with  its  crest  of  trees  adorned 

On  which  the  warbling  birds  their  pastime  take 

Food,  shelter,  safety,  there  they  find  ; 
There  berries  ripen,  flowerets  bloom ; 
There  insects  live  their  lives,  and  die  : 
A.  peopled  world  it  Is  ;  in  size  a  tiny  room. 

And  thus  through  many  seasons'  space 
This  little  Island  may  survive  ; 
But  Nature,  though  we  mark  her  not, 
Will  take  away,  may  cease  to  give. 


28  MISCELLANEOUS    POKMS. 

Perchance  when  you  are  wandering  forth 
Upon  some  vacant  sunny  day, 
Without  an  object,  hope,  or  fear, 
Tiiither  your  eyes  may  turn,  —  the  Isle  is  passed 
away ; 

Buried  beneath  the  glittering  Lake, 
Its  place  no  longer  to  be  found  ; 
Yet  the  lost  fragments  shall  remain 
To  fertilize  some  other  ground. 

D.  W. 


X. 

How  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night,  on  high 

Her  way  pursuing  among  scattered  clouds, 

Whei'e,  ever  and  anon,  her  head  she  shrouds. 

Hidden  from  view  in  dense  obscurity. 

But  look,  and  to  the  watchful  eye 

A  bi'ightening  edge  will  indicate  that  soon 

We  shall  behold  the  struggling  Moon 

Break  forth,  again  to  walk  the  clear  blue  sky. 


XI. 

"  Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  tlie  7iew  moone 
Wi'  the  auld  moone  in  liir  nnne." 

Ballad  of  Sir  rutrkk  Spcnce,  Percy's  Relif/ttea. 

Once  I  could  hail  (liowe'er  serene  the  sky) 
The  iiiuun  re-entering  her  monthly  round. 


ONCE   I   COULD    HAIL.  29 

No  faculty  yet  given  me  to  espy 

The  dusky  Shape  within  her  arms  imbound, 

That  thin  memento  of  effulgence  lost 

Which  some  have  named  her  Predecessor's  ghost. 

Young,  like  the  Crescent  that  above  me  shone, 
Naught  I  perceived  within  it  dull  or  dim  ; 
All  that  appeared  was  suitable  to  one 
Whose  fancy  had  a  thousand  fields  to  skira  ; 
To  expectations  spreading  with  wild  growth, 
And  hope  that  kept  with  me  her  plighted  troth. 

I  saw  (ambition  quickening  at  the  view) 
A  silver  boat  launched  on  a  boundless  flood  ; 
A  pearly  crest,  hke  Dian's  when  it  threw 
Its  brightest  splendor  round  a  leafy  wood  ; 
But  not  a  hint  fi-om  under-ground,  no  sign 
Fit  for  the  glimmering  brow  of  Proserpine. 

Or  was  it  Dian's  self  that  seemed  to  move 
Before  me  ?  —  nothing  blemished  the  fair  sight  ; 
On  her  I  looked  whom  jocund  Fairies  love, 
Cynthia,  who  puts  the  little  stars  to  flight, 
And  by  that  thinning  magnifies  the  great, 
For  exaltation  of  her  sovereign  state. 

And  when  I  learned  to  mark  the  spectral  Shape 
As  each  new  Moon  obeyed  the  call  of  time, 
If  gloom  fell  on  me,  swift  was  my  escape ; 
Such  happy  privilege  hath  life's  gay  Prime, 


30  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

To  see  or  not  to  see,  as  best  may  please 
A  buoyant  Spirit,  and  a  heart  at  ease. 

Now,  dazzling  Stranger !  when  thou  meet'st  my 

glance, 
Thy  dark  Associate  ever  I  discern  ; 
Emblem  of  thoughts  too  eager  to  advance 
While  I  salute  my  joys,  thoughts  sad  or  stern  ; 
Shades  of  past  bliss,  or  phantoms  that,  to  gain 
Their  fill  of  promised  lustre,  wait  in  vain. 

So  changes  mortal  Life  with  fleeting  years  ; 
A  mournful  change,  should  Reason  fail  to  bring 
The  timely  insight  that  can  temper  fears, 
And  from  vicissitude  remove  its  sting ; 
Wliile  Faith  aspires  to  seats  in  that  domain 
"Where  joys  are  perfect,  —  neither  wax  nor  wane. 

1826 


XIL 
TO   THE   LADY  FLEMING, 

>S   SEEING   THE   FOUNDATION    I'KKl'ARING    FOR    THE    EREO 
TION   OF    RYDAL   CllAl'ICI^,    WKSTMDRELAND. 

I. 

Blest  is  this  Isle,  —  our  native  Land  ; 
Where  battlement  and  moated  gate 
Are  objects  only  for  the  hand 


TO    THE    LADT    FLEMING.  31 

Of  hoaiy  Time  to  decorate  ; 

Where  shady  hamlet,  town  that  breathes 

Its  busy  smoke  in  social  wreaths, 

No  rampart's  stern  defence  require. 

Naught  but  the  heaven-directed  spire. 

And  steeple  tower  (with  pealing  bells 

Far  heard),  —  our  only  citadels. 

n. 

O  Lady  !  from  a  noble  line 
Of  chieftains  sprung,  who  stoutly  bore 
The  spear,  yet  gave  to  works  divine 
A  bounteous  help  in  days  of  yore, 
(As  records  mouldering  in  the  Dell 
Of  Nightshade  *  haply  yet  may  tell,) 
Thee  kindred  aspirations  moved 
To  build,  within  a  vale  beloved. 
For  Him  upon  whose  high  behests 
Ail  peace  depends,  all  safety  rests. 

in. 

How  fondly  will  the  woods  embrace 
This  daughter  of  thy  pious  care. 
Lifting  her  front  with  modest  grace 
To  make  a  fair  recess  more  fair, 
And  to  exalt  the  passing  hour, 
Or  soothe  it  with  a  healing  power 
Drawn  from  the  Sacrifice  fulfilled, 

«  Bekangs  Ghyll,  —  or  the  dell  of  Nightshade,  -  in  wrfaich 
rtands  St.  llary's  Abbey  in  Low  Funiess. 


ii2  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Before  this  rugged  soil  was  tilled, 
Or  huraau  habitation  rose 
To  interrupt  the  deep  repose  ! 

IV. 

Well  may  the  villagers  rejoice  ! 

Nor  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  weary  ways, 

Will  be  a  hindrance  to  the  voice 

That  would  unite  in  prayer  and  praise  ; 

More  duly  shall  wild,  wandering  Youth 

Receive  the  curb  of  sacred  truth, 

Shall  tottering  Age,  bent  earthward,  hear 

The  Promise,  with  uplifted  ear ; 

And  all  shall  welcome  the  new  ray 

Imparted  to  their  Sabbath-day. 

V. 

Nor  deem  the  Poet's  hope  misplaced, 
His  fancy  cheated,  that  can  see 
A  shade  upon  the  future  cast. 
Of  time's  pathetic  sanctity  ; 
Can  hear  the  monitory  clock 
Sound  o'er  the  lake  with  gentle  shock 
At  evening,  when  the  ground  beneath 
Is  ruffled  o'er  with  cells  of  death  ; 
Where  happy  generations  lie. 
Here  tutored  for  eternity. 

VI. 

Lives  there  a  man  whose  sole  delights 
Are  trivial  pomp  and  city  noise. 


TO    THE    LADY    FLEMING.  33 

Hardening  a  heart  that  loathes  or  slights 
What  every  natural  heart  enjoys  ? 
Who  never  caught  a  noontide  dream 
From  murmur  of  a  running  stream  • 
Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospeci  jieids 
To  him,  their  verdure  from  the  fields  ; 
And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 

In  which  the  sun  his  setting  shrouds  ? 

* 

vn. 
A  soul  so  pitiably  forlorn, 
If  such  do  on  this  earth  abide. 
May  season  apathy  with  scorn, 
May  turn  indifference  to  pride  ; 
And  still  be  not  unblest,  compared 
With  him  who  grovels,  self-debarred 
From  all  that  lies  within  the  scope 
Of  holy  faith  and  Christian  hope  ; 
Or,  shipwrecked,  kindles  on  the  coast 
False  fires,  that  others  may  be  lost. 

VIII. 

Alas  that  such  perverted  zeal 
Should  spread  on  Britain's  favored  ground  ! 
That  public  order,  private  weal, 
Should  e'er  have  felt  or  feared  a  wound 
From  champions  of  the  desperate  law 
Which  from  their  own  blind  hearts  they  draw; 
Who  tempt  their  reason  to  denv 
God,  whom  their  passions  daie  defy, 

?UL.    v.  8 


oi  MISCELLAM.OLs    TOKMs. 

And  boast  that  they  alone  are  free 
"Who  reach  this  dire  extremity ; 

IX. 

But  turn  we  from  these  "  bold,  bad  "  men  ; 

The  way,  mild  Lady  !  that  hath  led 

Down  to  their  "  dark,  opprobrious  den," 

Is  all  too  rough  for  thee  to  tread. 

Softly  as  morning  vapors  glide 

Down  Rydal  Cove  from  Fairfield's  side, 

Should  move  the  tenor  of  his  song 

Who  means  to  charity  no  wrong ; 

Whose  offering  gladly  would  accord 

With  this  day's  work,  in  thought  and  word 

X. 

Heaven  prosper  it !  may  peace,  and  love. 
And  hope,  and  consolation,  fall, 
Through  its  meek  influence,  from  above, 
And  penetrate  the  hearts  of  all ; 
All  who,  around  the  hallowed  Fane, 
Shall  sojourn  in  this  fair  domain  ; 
Grateful  to  thee,  while  service  pure. 
And  ancient  ordinance,  shall  endure. 
For  opportunity  bestowed 
To  kneel  together,  and  ador«  their  (iod  I 

18i8. 


ON    THE    SAME    OCCASION.  33 

ON   THE    SAME    OCCASION. 

Oh !  gather  whencesoe'er  ye  sately  may 
The  help  which  s.ackening  Piety  requires; 
Nor  deem  that  he  perforce  must  go  astray 
Who  treads  upon  the  footmarks  of  his  sires. 

Our  churches,  invariably  perhaps,  stand  east  and  west,  but 
10%  is  bj''  few  persons  exactly  known;  nor,  that  the  du'gite  of 
deviation  from  due  east  often  noticeable  in  the  ancient  ones  was 
detemiined,  in  each  particular  case,  by  the  point  in  the  hori 
zon  at  which  the  sun  rose  upon  the  day  of  the  saint  to  whom 
the  church  was  dedicated.  These  observances  of  our  ances- 
tors, and  the  causes  of  them,  are  the  subject  of  the  following 
stanzas. 

When,  in  the  antique  age  of  bow  and  spear 
And  feudal  rapine  clothed  with  iron  mail, 
Came  ministers  of  peace  intent  to  rear 
The  Mother  Church  in  yon  sequestered  vale,  — 

Then  to  her  Patron  Saint  a  previous  rite 
Resounded  with  deep  swell  and  solemn  close, 
Through  unremitting  vigils  of  the  night, 
Till  from  his  couch  the  wished-for  Sun  uprose. 

He  rose,  and  straight,  as  by  divine  command, 
They,  who  had  waited  for  that  sign  to  trace 
Tlieir  work's  foundation,  gave  with  careful  hand 
To  the  high  altar  its  determined  place  ;  — 


3fi  AlISClClLAXKOUa    POEM«. 

Mindful  of  Him  who,  in  the  Orient  born, 
There  Hved,  and  on  the  cross  his  Hfe  resigned, 
And  who,  from  out  the  regions  of  the  morn, 
Issuing  in  pomp,  shall  come  to  judge  mankind. 

So  taught  ^/iCiV  creed; — nor  failed  the  eastern  sky, 
'Mid  these  more  awful  feelings,  to  infuse 
The  sweet  and  natural  hopes  that  shall  not  die, 
Long  as  the  sun  liis  gladsome  course  renews. 

For  us  hath  such  prelusive  vigil  ceased  ; 

Yet  still  we  plant,  like  men  of  elder  days, 

Our  Christian  altar  faitliful  to  the  east, 

Whence  the  tall  window  drinks  the  morning  rays  ; 

That  obvious  emblem  giving  to  the  eye 
Of  meek  devotion,  which  erewhile  it  gave, 
That  symbol  of  the  day-spring  from  on  high,     ' 
Triumphant  o'er  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 

1823. 


XIV 

THE  HORN  OF  EGREMONT  CASTLE. 

EuK  the  Brothers  through  the  gafivvay 
Issued  forth  with  old  and  young. 
To  the  Horn  Sir  Eustace  pointed, 
Which  for  ui^cs  thert;  had   hung. 


TUE    HORN    OF    EGUK310NT    CASTLK.  37 

Horn  it  was  which  none  could  ^ound, 

No  one  upon  living  ground, 

Save  he  who  came  as  rightful  Heir 

To  Egremont's  Domains  and  Castle  fair. 

Heirs  from  times  of  earliest  record 

Had  the  House  of  Lucie  born, 

Who  of  right  had  held  the  Lordship 

Claimed  by  proof  upon  the  Horn  ; 

Each  at  the  appointed  hour 

Tried  the  Horn,  —  it  owned  his  power ; 

He  was  acknowledged :  and  the  blast 

Which  good  Sir  Eustace  sounded  was  the  last. 

With  his  lance  Sir  Eustace  pointed, 

And  to  Hubert  thus  said  he  : 

"  What  I  speak  this  horn  shall  witness 

For  thy  better  memory. 

Hear,  then,  and  neglect  me  not ! 

At  this  time,  and  on  this  spot. 

The  words  are  uttered  from  my  heart, 

As  my  last  earnest  prayer  ere  we  depart. 

"  On  good  service  we  are  going 

Life  to  risk  by  sea  and  land. 

In  which  course  if  Christ  our  Saviour 

Do  my  sinful  soul  demand, 

Hither  come  thou  back  straightway, 

Hubert,  if  alive  that  day  ; 

Return,  and  sound  the  Horn,  that  we 

May  have  a  living  House  still  left  in  thee  I** 


38  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"  Fear  not,"  quickly  answered  Hubert ; 

"  As  I  am  thy  father's  son, 

What  thou  askest,  noble  Brother, 

With  God's  favor  shall  be  done." 

So  were  both  right  well  content : 

Forth  they  from  the  Castle  went, 

And  at  the  head  of  their  array 

To  Palestine  the  Brothers  took  their  way. 

Side  by  side  they  fought,  (the  Lucies 

Were  a  line  for  valor  famed,) 

And  where'er  their  strokes  alighted, 

There  the  Saracens  were  tamed. 

W^hence,  then,  could  it  come,  —  the  thought,  — 

By  what  evil  spirit  brought  ? 

0,  can  a  brave  Man  wish  to  take 

His  Brother's  life,  for  Lands'  and  Castle's  sake  ? 

"  Sir ! "  the  Ruffians  said  to  Hubert, 
"  Deep  he  lies  in  Jordan  flood." 
Stricken  by  this  ill  assurance, 
Pale  and  trembling  Hubert  stood. 
"  Take  your  earnings."  —  O  that  I 
Could  have  seen  my  Brother  die  ! 
It  was  a  pang  that  vexed  him  then ; 
And  oft  returned,  again,  and  yet  again. 

Mouflis  passed  on,  and  no  Sir  Eustace! 
Nor  of  him  were  tidings  heard. 
Wiicrefore,  bold  as  day,  the  Murderer 
Uiiik  again  (o  England  steered. 


THE    HORN    OF    EGREMONT    CASTLE.  39 

To  his  Castle  Hubert  sped  ; 

Nothing  has  he  now  to  dread. 

But  silent  and  by  stealth  he  came, 

And  at  an  hour  which  nobody  could  name. 

None  could  tell  if  it  were  night-time, 

Night  or  day,  at  even  or  morn ; 

No  one's  eye  had  seen  him  enter, 

No  one's  ear  had  heard  the  Horn. 

But  bold  Hubert  lives  in  glee  : 

Months  and  years  went  smilingly  ; 

With  plenty  was  his  table  spread, 

And  bright  the  Lady  is  who  shares  his  bed. 

Likewise  he  had  sons  and  daughters ; 

And,  as  good  men  do,  he  sate 

At  his  boai'd  by  these  surrounded. 

Flourishing  in  fair  estate. 

And  while  thus  in  open  day 

Once  he  sate,  as  old  books  say, 

A  blast  was  uttered  from  the  Horn, 

Where  by  the  Castle  gate  it  hung  forlorn. 


'T  is  the  breath  of  good  Sir  Eustace  ! 

He  is  come  to  claim  his  right : 

Ancient  castle,  woods,  and  mountains 

Hear  the  challenge  with  delight. 

Hubert !  though  the  blast  be  blown, 

llv,  is  helpless  and  alone  : 

Thou  hast  a  dungeon  ;  speak  the  word  ! 

And  there  he  may  be  lodged,  and  thou  be  Lord. 


iU  MISCELLA^'KOUS    rOEMS. 

SpcjiU  !  —  a!^toundecl  Hubert  cannot ; 

And,  \i'  power  to  speak  he  had, 

All  are  daunted,  all  the  household 

Smitten  to  the  heart,  and  sad. 

'T  is  Sir  Eustace  ;  if  it  be 

Living  man,  it  must  be  he  ! 

Tlius  Hubert  thought  in  his  dismay, 

And  by  a  posteru  gate  he  slunk  away. 

Long  and  long  was  he  unheard  of: 

To  liis  Bi'other  then  he  came. 

Made  confession,  asked  forgiveness, 

Asked  it  by  a  brother's  name. 

And  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven ; 

And  of  Eustace  was  forgiven  : 

Then  in  a  convent  went  to  hide 

His  melancholy  head,  and  there  he  died. 

But  Sir  Eustace,  whom  good  angels 
Had  preserved  from  murderers'  hands, 
And  from  Pagan  chains  had  rescued. 
Lived  with  honor  on  his  lands. 
Sons  lie  had,  saw  sons  of  theirs, 
And  tln-ough  ages,  heirs  of  heirs, 
A  long  posterity  renowned. 

Sounded  the  Horn  which  they  alone  could  souna 

1806. 


GOODY    P.LAKE    AND    1IART:Y    GILL.  41 

XV. 

GOODY  BLAKE  AND  HARRY  GILL. 

A  TRUE  STORT. 

0,  WHAT  's  the  matter  ?  what 's  the  matter  ? 
What  is  't  that  ails  young  Harry  G^ll  ? 
That  evermore  his  teeth  they  chatter, 
Chatter,  chatter,  chatter  still ! 
Of  Avaistcoats  Harry  has  no  lack, 
Good  duffle  gray,  and  flannel  fine  ; 
He  has  a  blanket  on  his  back. 
And  coats  enough  to  smother  nine. 

In  March,  December,  and  in  July, 
'T  is  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill ; 
The  neighbors  tell,  and  tell  you  truly, 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 
At  night,  at  morning,  and  at  noon, 
'T  is  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill ; 
Beneath  the  sun,  beneath  the  moon. 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still ! 

Young  Harry  was  a  lusty  drover, 
And  who  so  stout  of  limb  as  he  ? 
His  cheeks  were  red  as  ruddy  clover ; 
His  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  three. 
Old  Goody  Blake  was  old  and  poor ; 
III  fed  she  was  and  thinly  clad  ; 
And  any  man  who  passed  her  door 
Might  see  how  poor  a  hut  she  had 


12  MTScr.r.L.vxr.ous  i'Okms. 

All  day  she  spun  in  hei*  poor  dwelling : 
And  then  her  three  hours'  work  at  night, 
Alas  !  't  was  hardly  worth  the  telling, 
It  would  not  pay  for  candle-light. 
Remote  from  sheltered  village-green. 
On  a  hill's  northern  side  she  dwelt, 
Where  from  sea-blasts  the  hawthorns  lean, 
And  hoary  dews  are  slow  to  melt. 

By  the  same  fire  to  boil  their  pottage, 
Two  poor  old  Dames,  as  I  have  known, 
"Will  often  hve  in  one  small  cottajje  ; 
But  she,  poor  Woman  !  housed  alone. 
'Twas  well  enough  when  summer  came, 
The  long,  warm,  lightsome  summer-day  ; 
Then  at  her  door  the  canty  Dame 
Would  sit,  as  any  linnet  gay. 

But  when  the  ice  our  streams  did  fetter, 
O  then  how  her  old  bones  would  sliake  ! 
You  would  have  said,  if  you  had  met  her, 
'T  was  a  hard  time  for  Goody  Blake. 
Her  evenings  then  were  dull  and  dead  : 
Sad  case  it  was,  as  you  may  think, 
For  very  cold  to  go  to  bed, 
And  then  for  cold  not  sleep  a  wink. 

O  joy  for  her!  whene'er  in  winter 
Tlie,  winds  at  night  had  made  a  rout, 
Anil  scallorcd  many  a  lusty  splinter 
And  many  a  rotten  bough  about. 


GOODY    BLAKE    AND    HARRY    GILI. 

Yet  never  had  she,  well  or  sick, 
As  every  man  who  knew  her  says, 
A  pile  beforehand,  turf  or  stick. 
Enough  to  warm  her  for  three  days. 

Now,  when  the  frost  was  past  enduring, 
And  made  her  poor  old  bones  to  ache. 
Could  anything  be  more  alluring 
Than  an  old  hedge  to  Goody  Blake? 
And,  now  and  then,  it  must  be  said. 
When  her  old  bones  were  cold  and  chill, 
She  left  her  fire,  or  left  her  bed, 
To  seek  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill ! 

Now  Harry  he  had  long  suspected 
This  trespass  of  old  Goody  Blake  ; 
And  vowed  that  she  should  be  detected,  - 
That  he  on  her  would  vengeance  take. 
And  oft  from  his  warm  fire  he  'd  go, 
And  to  the  fields  his  road  would  take ; 
And  there,  at  night,  in  frost  and  snow, 
He  watched  to  seize  old  Goody  Blake. 

And  once,  behind  a  rick  of  barley. 
Thus  looking  out  did  Harry  stand : 
The  moon  was  full  and  shining  clearly, 
And  crisp  with  frost  the  stubble  land. 
—  He  hears  a  noise,  —  he  's  all  awake,  - 
Again?  — on  tiptoe  down  the  hill 
He  softly  creeps,  —  't  is  Goody  Blake  ; 
'^he  's  at  the  lipdge  of  Harry  Gill ! 


M  :WISCELLANE0U3    POEMS. 

Right  glad  was  he  when  he  beheld  her: 
Stick  after  stick  did  Goody  pull : 
He  stood  behind  a  bush  of  elder, 
Till  she  had  filled  her  apron  full. 
When  with  her  load  she  turned  about. 
The  by-way  back  again  to  take, 
He  started  forward  with  a  shout, 
And  sprang  upon  poor  Goody  Bluke. 

And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  took  her, 
And  by  the  arm  he  held  her  fast. 
And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  shook  her. 
And  cried,  "  I  've  caught  you  then  at  last  I " 
Tlien  Goody,  who  had  nothing  said. 
Her  bundle  from  her  lap  let  fall ; 
And,  kneeling  on  the  sticks,  she  prayed 
To  God  that  is  the  judge  of  all. 

She  prayed,  her  withered  hand  uprearing, 
While  Harry  held  her  by  the  arm,  — 
"  God !  who  art  never  out  of  hearing, 
0  may  he  never  more  be  warm  !  " 
The  cold,  cold  moon  above  her  head, 
Thus  on  her  knees  did  Goody  pray  : 
Young  Harry  heard  what  she  had  said ; 
And  icy  cold  he  turned  away. 

He  went  complaining  all  the  morrow 
That  he  was  cold  and  verj  cnill : 
His  face  was  gloom,  his  heart  was  sorrow, 
Alas  !  that  day  (in-  Harry  Gill! 


ftOODY    BLAKE    AND    HARRY    GILL.  45 

Tliat  day  he  wore  a  riding-coat, 
But  not  a  wliit  the  warmer  he : 
Another  was  on  Thursday  brought, 
And  ere  the  Sabbath  he  had  three. 

'T  was  all  in  vain,  a  useless  matter, 
And  blankets  were  about  him  pinned  ; 
Yet  still  his  jaws  and  teeth  they  clatter, 
Like  a  loose  casement  in  the  wind. 
And  Harry's  flesh  it  fell  away  ; 
And  all  who  see  him  say  't  is  plain, 
That,  live  as  long  as  live  he  may, 
He  never  will  be  w^arm  again. 


'o 


No  word  to  any  man  he  utters. 
Abed  or  up,  to  young  or  old  ; 
But  ever  to  himself  he  mutters, 
"  Poor  Harry  Gill  is  very  cold." 
Abed  or  up,  by  night  or  day, 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 
Now  think,  ye  farmers  all,  I  pray, 
Of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  GiU ! 


lini. 


16  MISCELLANKOUS    J'OICMS. 


XVI. 


PRELUDE, 

PREFIXED   TO  THE  VOLUME   ENTITLKD   "  POEMS   CHtEJXJf 
OF   EARLY  AND   LATE  YEARS." 

In  desultory  walk  through  orchard  grounds, 
Or  some  deep  chestnut  grove,  oft  have  I  paused 
The  while  a  Thrush,  urged  rather  than  restrained 
By  gusts  of  vernal  storm,  attuned  his  song 
To  his  own  genial  instincts  ;  and  was  heard 
(Though  not  without  some  plaintive  tones  between) 
To  utter,  above  showers  of  blossom  swept 
From  tossing  boughs,  the  promise  of  a  calm, 
Which  the  unsheltered  traveller  might  receive 
With  thankful  spirit.     The  descant,  and  the  wind 
That  seemed  to  play  with  it  in  love  or  scorn, 
Encouraged  and  endeared  the  strain  of  words 
That  haply  flowed  from  me,  by  fits  of  silence 
Impelled  to  livelier  pace.     But  now,  my  Book  ! 
Charired  with  those  lays,  and  others  of  like  mood, 
Or  loftier  pitch  if  higher  I'ose  the  theme. 
Go,  single,  yet  aspiring  to  be  joined 
With  thy  Forerunners  that  through  many  a  year 
Have  faithfully  prepared  each  other's  way,  — 
Go  forth  upon  a  mission  best  fulfilled 
When  and  wherever,  in  this  changeful  world. 
Power  hath  been  given  to  please  for  higher  ends 
Tliaii  pleasure  only;  gladdening  to  prepare 


PRELUDE.  47 

For  wholesome  sadness,  troubling  to  refine, 
Calming  to  raise ;  and,  by  a  sapient  Art 
Diffused  through  all  the  mysteries  of  our  Being, 
Softening  the  toils  and  pains  that  have  not  ceased 
To  cast  their  shadows  on  our  mother  EarlL 
Since  the  primeval  doom.     Such  is  the  grace 
Which,  though  unsued  for,  fails  not  to  descend 
With  heavenly  inspiration  ;  such  the  aim 
That  Reason  dictates ;  and,  as  even  the  wish 
Has  virtue  in  it,  why  should  hope  to  me 
Be  wanting,  that  sometimes,  where  fancied  ills 
Harass  the  mind  and  strip  from  off  the  bowers 
Of  pi'ivate  life  their  natural  pleasantness, 
A  Voice  —  devoted  to  the  love  whose  seeds 
Are  sown  in  every  human  breast,  to  beauty 
Lodged  within  compass  of  the  humblest  sight, 
To  cheerful  intercourse  ^vith  wood  and  field, 
And  sympathy  with  man's  substantial  griefs  — 
Will  not  be  heard  in  vain?     And  in  those  days 
When  unforeseen  distress  spreads  far  and  wide 
Among  a  People  mournfully  cast  down, 
Or  into  anger  roused  by  venal  words 
In  recklessness  flung  out  to  overturn 
T\w  judgment,  and  divert  the  general  heart 
From   mutual   good,   some   strain   of  thine,   my 

Book! 
Caught  at  propitious  intervals,  may  win 
List'^mers  who  not  unwillingly  admit 
Kindly  emotion  tending  to  console 
And  reconcile  ;  and  both  with  young  and  old 


18  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Exalt  the  sense  of  thoughtful  gratitude 

Fur  benefits  that  still  survive,  by  faith 

In  progress,  under  laws  divine,  maintained. 

Rydal  Mount,  March  26, 1842. 


XVII. 
TO  A  CHILD. 

WRITTEN   IX    HER   ALBUM. 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts  : 

Of  humblest  Friends,  bright  Creature  !  scorn  not 

one : 
The  Daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 
Protects  the  lingering  dew-drop  from  the  Sun. 

1884. 


XVIIL 
LINES 


WRITTEN   IN   THE  ALBUM   OK  THE   COUNTESS  OF  LONSDALE. 

NOV.  5,  1834. 

Lady  !  a  Pen  (perhaps  with  thy  regard, 
Among  the  Favored,  favored  not  tiie  least) 
L('fi,  'mid  tlie  Records  of  this  Book  inscribed. 
Deliberate  traces,  registers  of  thouglit 


LINES.  49 

And  feeling,  suited  to  the  place  and  tin^e 

That  gave  them  birth  :  —  months  passed,  and  still 

this  hand. 
That  had  not  been  too  timid  to  imprint 
Words  ^hich  the  virtues  of  thy  Lord  inspired, 
Was  yet  not  bold  enough  to  write  of  thee. 
And  why  that  scrupulous  reserve  ?     In  sooth, 
The  blameless  cause  lay  in  the  Theme  itself. 
Flowers  are  there  many  that  delight  to  strive 
With  the  sharp  wind,  and  seem  to  court  the  shower, 
Yet  are  by  nature  careless  of  the  sun 
Whether  he  shine  on  them  or  not ;  and  some, 
Where'er  he  moves  along  the  unclouded  sky, 
Turn  a  broad  front  full  on  his  fluttering  beams: 
Others  do  rather  from»  their  notice  shrink. 
Loving  the  dewy  shade,  —  a  humble  band, 
Modest  and  sweet,  a  progeny  of  earth, 
Congenial  with  thy  mind  and  character. 
High-born  Augusta  ! 

Witness  Towei's,  and  Groves! 
And  thou,  wild  Stream,  that  giv'st  the  honored 

name 
Of  Lowther  to  this  ancient  Line,  bear  witness 
From  thy  most  secret  haunts ;  and  ye  Parterres, 
Which  She  is  pleased  and  proud  to  call  her  own, 
Witness  how  oft  upon  my  noble  Friend 
Mute  offerings,  tribute  from  an  inward  sense 
Of  admiration  and  respectful  love, 
Have  waited,  till  the  affections  could  no  more 
Endure  that  silence,  and  broke  out  in  song 

VOL.   V.  4 


jO  miscellaneous    POE-MS. 

SiKitches  of  music  taken  up  and  dropped, 
Like  those  self-solacing,  those  under  notes 
Trilled  by  the  redbreast,  when  autumnal  leaves 
Are  thin  upon  the  bough.     Mine,  only  mine. 
The  pleasure  was,  and  no  one  heard  the  praise, 
Checked,  in  the  moment  of  its  issue,  checked 
And  reprehended,  by  a  fancied  blush 
From  the  pure  qualities  that  called  it  forth. 

Thus  Virtue  lives  debarred  from  Virtue's  meed ; 
Thus,  Lady,  is  retiredness  a  veil. 
That,  wliile  it  only  spreads  a  softening  charm 
O'er  features  looked  at  by  discerning  eyes, 
Hides  half  their  beauty  from  the  counnon  gaze  ; 
And  thus,  even  on  the  exposed  and  breezy  hill 
Of  lufty  station,  female  goodness  walks, 
When  side  by  side  with  lunar  gentleness, 
As  in  a  cloister.     Yet  the  grateful  Poor 
(Such  the  immunities  of  low  estate. 
Plain  Nature's  enviable  privilege. 
Her  sacred  recompense  for  my  wants) 
Open  their  hearts  before  Thee,  pouring  out 
All  that  they  tJiink  and  feel,  with  tears  of  joy, 
And  benedictions  not  unheard  in  heaven  : 
And  friend  in  the  ear  of  friend,  where  speech  is  fi-ee 
To  follow  truth,  is  eloquent  as  they. 

Then  let  the  Book  receive  in  these  prompt  lino8 
A  just  menio!-i;il  ;  and  thine  eyes  consent 
To  read  that  tln-y,  who  niai'k  thy  course,  bciiold 


LINES.  «>1 

A.  life  declining  with  the  golden  light 
Of  summer,  in  the  season  of  sere  leaves  ; 
See  cheerfulness  undamped  by  stealing  Time ; 
See  studied  kindness  flow  with  easy  stream, 
Illustrated  with  inborn  courtesy  ; 
And  an  habitual  disregard  of  self 
Balanced  by  vigilance  for  others'  weal. 

And  shall  the  Verse  not  tell  of  lighter  gifts 
With  these  ennobling  attributes  conjoined 
And  blended,  in  peculiar  harmony, 
By  youth's  surviving  spirit  ?     What  agile  grace  ! 
A  nymph-like  liberty,  in  nymph-like  form, 
Beheld  with  wonder ;  whether  floor  or  path 
Thou  tread;   or  sweep,  borne  on   the   managed 

steed. 
Fleet  as  the  shadows,  over  down  or  field. 
Driven  by  strong  winds  at  play  among  the  clouds. 

Yet  one  word  more,  —  one  farewell  word,  —  a 
wish 
Which  came,  but  it  has  passed  into  a  prayer,  — 
That,  as  thy  sun  in  brightness  is  declining, 
So  —  at  an  hour  yet  distant  for  their  sakes 
Whose  tender  love,  here  faltering  on  the  way 
9f  a  diviner  love,  will  be  forgiven,  — 
So  may  it  set  in  peace,  to  rise  again 
For  everlasting  glory  won  by  faith. 


52  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

XIX. 

GRACE  DAELING. 

Among  the  dwellers  in  the  silent  fields 

The  natural  heart  is  touched,  and  public  way 

And  crowded  street  resound  with  ballad  strains, 

Inspired  by  one  whose  very  name  bespeaks 

Favor  divine,  exalting  human  love  ; 

Whom,  since  her  birth  on  bleak    Northumbrias 

coast. 
Known  unto  few,  but  prized  as  far  as  known, 
A  single  Act  endears  to  high  and  low 
Through  the  whole  land  ;  —  to  Manhood,  moved 

in  spite 
Of  the  world's  freezing  cares;  to  generous  Youth; 
To  Infancy,  that  lisps  her  praise  ;  to  Age 
Whose  eye  reflects  it,  glistening  through  a  tear 
Of  tremulous  admiration.     Such  true  fame 
Awaits  her  noio  ;  but,  verily,  good  deeds 
Do  no  imperishable  record  find. 
Save  in  the  rolls  of  heaven,  where  hers  may  live 
A  theme  for  angels,  when  they  celebrate 
The  high-souled  virtues  which  forgetful  earth 
Has  witnessed.     0  that  winds  and  waves  could 

speak 
CM"  things  which  their  united  power  called  forth 
From  the  pure  depths  of  her  humanity  ! 
A  IMaidcn  gentle,  yet,  at  duty's  call, 


GRACE   DARLING.  53 

Firm  aud  unflinching  as  the  Lighthouse  reared 
On  the  Island-rock,  her  lonely  dwelling-place  ; 
Or  like  the  invincible  Rock  itself,  that  braves. 
Age  after  age,  the  hostile  elements, 
As  when  it  guarded  holy  Cuthbert's  celL 

All  night  the  storm  had  raged,  nor  ceased,  nor 
paused. 
When,  as  day  broke,  the  Maid,  through  mistv  air, 
Espies  far  off  a  Wreck,  amid  the  surf, 
Beating  on  one  of  those  disastrous  isles,  — 
Half  of  a  Vessel,  half,  —  no  more  ;  the  rest 
Had  vanished,  swallowed  up  with  all  that  there 
Had  for  the  common  safety  striven  in  vain, 
Or  thither  thronged  for  refuge.     With  quick  glance 
Daughter  and  Sire  through  optic-glass  discern. 
Clinging  about  the  remnant  of  this  Ship, 
Creatures  —  how  precious  in  the  Maiden's  sight ! 
For  whom,  belike,  the  old  Man  grieves  still  more 
Than  for  their  fellow-sufferers  ingulfed 
Where  every  parting  agony  is  hushed, 
And  hope  and  fear  mix  not  in  further  strife. 
''  But  courage,  Father  !  let  us  out  to  sea,  — 
A  few  may  yet  be  saved."     The  Daughter's  words, 
Her  earnest  tone,  and  look  beaming  with  faith. 
Dispel  the  Father's  doubts  :  nor  do  they  lack 
The  noble-minded  Mother's  helping  hand 
To  launch  the  boat ;  and  with  her  blessing  cheered 
And  inwardly  sustained  by  silent  prayer, 
Vogether  they  put  forth,  Father  and  Child  ! 


54  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Each  grasps  an  oar,  and  struggling  on  they  go,  — 

Rivals  in  effort ;  and,  alike  intent 

Here  to  elude  and  there  surmount,  they  watch 

The  billows  lengthening,  mutually  crossed 

And  shattered,  and  regathering  their  might ; 

As  if  the  tumult  by  the  Almighty's  will 

Were,  in  the  conscious  sea,  roused  and  prolonged, 

That  woman's  fortitude  —  so  tried,  so  proved  — 

May  brighten  more  and  more  ! 

True  to  the  mark, 
They  stem  the  current  of  that  perilous  gorge, 
Their  arms  still  strengthening  with  the  strength- 
ening heart, 
Though  danger,  as  the  Wreck  is  neared,  becomes 
More  imminent.     Not  unseen  do  they  approach  ; 
And  rapture,  with  varieties  of  fear 
Incessantly  conflicting,  thrills  the  frames 
Of  those  who,  in  that  dauntless  energy, 
Foretaste  deliverance  ;  but  the  least  perturbed 
Can  scarcely  trust  his  eyes,  when  he  perceives 
That  of  the  pair,  —  tossed  on  the  waves  to  bring 
Hope  to  the  hopeless,  to  the  dying,  Hfe  — 
One  is  a  Woman,  a  poor  earthly  sister. 
Or,  be  the  Visitant  other  than  she  seems, 
A  guardian  Spirit  sent  from  pitying  Heaven, 
In  woman's  shape.     But  why  prolong  the  tale, 
Casting  weak  words  amid  a  host  of  thoughts 
Arme<l  to  repel  them?     Every  hazard  faced 
And  dilficulty  mastered,  with  resolve 


GRACE    DARLING.  55 

That  no  one  breathing  should  be  left  to  perish, 
This  last  remainder  of  the  crew  are  all 
Placed  in  the  little  boat,  then  o'er  the  deep 
Are  safely  borne,  landed  upon  the  beach, 
And,  in  fulfilment  of  God's  mercy,  lodged 
Within  the   sheltering    Lighthouse.  —  Shout,   ye 

Waves ! 
Send  forth  a  song  of  triumph.     Waves  and  Winds. 
Exult  in  this  deliverance  wrought  through  faith 
In  Him  whose  Providence  your  rage  hath  served  ! 
Ye  screaming  Sea-mews,  in  the  concert  join  ! 
And  would  that  some  immortal  Voice  —  a  Voice 
Fitly  attuned  to  all  that  gratitude 
Breathes  out  from  floor  or  couch,  through  pallid  lips 
Of  the  survivors  — ■  to  the  clouds  might  bear,  — 
Blended  with  praise  of  that  parental  love. 
Beneath  whose  watchful  eye  the  Maiden  grew 
Pious  and  pure,  modest  and  yet  so  brave. 
Though  young  so  wise,  though  meek  so  resolute,  — 
Mio'ht  carrv  to  the  clouds  and  to  the  stars. 
Yen,  to  celestial  Choirs,  Grace  Darlings  namo. ! 

1842. 


56  MISCELLAXEOUS    POEMS. 

XX. 

THE  RUSSIAN  FUGITIVE. 

TAUT    I. 

Enough  of  rose-bud  lips,  and  eyes 

Like  harebells  bathed  in  dew, 
Of  cheek  that  with  carnation  vies, 

And  veins  of  violet  hue : 
Earth  wants  not  beauty  that  may  scorn 

A  likening  to  frail  flowers  ; 
Yea,  to  the  stars,  if  they  were  born 

For  seasons  and  for  hours. 

Through  Moscow's  gates,  with  gold  unbarred, 

Stepped  one  at  dead  of  night, 
Whom  such  high  beauty  could  not  guard 

From  meditated  blight ; 
By  stealth  she  passed,  and  fled  as  fast 

As  doth  the  hunted  fawn, 
Nor  stopped,  till  in  the  dappling  east 

Appeared  unwelcome  dawn. 

Seven  days  she  lurked  in  brake  and  field, 

Seven  nights  her  course  renewed, 
Sustained  l>y  what  her  scrip  might  yield. 

Or  berries  of  the  wood  ; 
At  li-ngtii,  in  dai'kness  travelling  on, 

When  lowly  doors  were  shut, 
Tin;  haven  of  her  liope  she  won, 

Her  Fostei -mother's  hut. 


THE    KUSSIAN    FUGITIVE.  57 

"  To  pul  your  love  to  dangerous  proof 

I  come,"  said  she,  "  from  far  ; 
For  I  have  left  my  Father's  roof, 

In  terror  of  the  Czar." 
No  answer  did  the  Matron  give, 

No  second  look  she  cast, 
But  hung  upon  the  Fugitive, 

Embracing  and  embraced. 

She  led  the  Lady  to  a  seat 

Beside  the  glimmering  fire, 
Bathed  duteously  her  way-worn  feet, 

Prevented  each  desire :  — 
The  cricket  chirped,  the  house-dog  dozed. 

And  on  that  simple  bed, 
Where  she  in  childhood  had  reposed, 

Now  rests  her  weary  head. 

When  she,  whose  couch  had  been  the  sod. 

Whose  curtain,  pine  or  thorn, 
Had  breathed  a  sigh  of  thanks  to  God, 

Who  comforts  the  forlorn  ; 
While  over  her  the  Matron  bent. 

Sleep  sealed  her  eyes,  and  stole 
Feeling  from  limbs  with  travel  spent. 

And  trouble  from  the  soul. 

Refreshed,  the  Wanderer  rose  at  mom. 

And  soon  ajrain  was  dight 
In  those  unworthy  vestments  worn 

Through  long  and  perilous  flight ; 


58  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

And  "0  beloved  Nurse ! "  she  said, 

"  My  thanks  with  silent  tears 
Have  unto  Heaven  and  you  been  paid : 

Now  listen  to  my  fears  ! 

"  Have  you  forgot "  —  and  here  she  smiled  • 

"  The  babbling  flatteries 
You  lavished  on  me  when  a  child 

Disporting  round  your  knees  ? 
I  was  your  lambkin,  and  your  bird, 

Your  star,  your  gem,  your  flower  • 
Light  words,  that  were  more  lightly  heard 

In  many  a  cloudless  hour  ! 

"  The  blossom  you  so  fondly  praised 

Is  come  to  bitter  fruit ; 
A  mighty  one  upon  me  gazed  ; 

I  spurned  his  lawless  suit. 
And  must  be  hidden  from  his  wrath : 

You,  Foster-father  dear 
"Will  guide  me  in  my  forward  path  ; 

I  may  not  tarry  here ! 

"  I  cannot  bring  to  utter  woe 

Your  proved  fidelity."  — 
"  Dear  Child,  sweet  Mistress,  say  not  so ! 

For  you  we  both  would  die."  — 
"  Nay,  nay,  I  come  with  semblance  feigned 

And  clieek  embrowned  by  art  • 
Yet,  being  inwardly  unstained. 

With  courage  will  depart." 


THE    RUSSIAN    FUGITIVE.  5& 

"  But  whither  would  you,  could  you,  flee? 

A  poor  man's  counsel  take  ; 
The  Holy  Virgin  gives  to  me 

A  thought  for  your  dear  sake  ; 
Rest,  shielded  by  our  Lady's  grace, 

And  soon  shall  you  be  led 
Forth  to  a  safe  abiding-place, 

Where  never  foot  doth  tread." 


PART  II. 


The  dwelling  of  this  faithful  pair 

In  a  straggling  village  stood, 
For  one  who  breathed  unquiet  air 

A  dangerous  neighborhood ; 
But  wide  around  lay  forest  ground 

With  thickets  rough  and  blind  ; 
And  pine-trees  made  a  heavy  shade 

Impervious  to  the  wind. 

And  there,  sequestered  from  the  sight. 

Was  spread  a  treacherous  swamp, 
On  which  the  noonday  sun  shed  light 

As  from  a  lonely  lamp  ; 
And  midway  in  the  unsafe  morass 

A  single  Island  rose, 
Of  firm,  dry  ground  with  healtlifiil  grass 

Adorned,  and  shady  boughs. 


30  JUSCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Tlie  Woodman  knew,  for  such  the  craft 

This  Russian  vassal  plied, 
That  never  fowler's  gun,  nor  shaft 

Of  archer,  there  was  tried  ; 
A  sanctuary  seemed  the  spot 

From  all  intrusion  free  ; 
And  there  he  planned  an  artful  Cot 

For  perfect  secrecy. 

"With  earnest  pains,  unchecked  by  dread 

Of  Power's  far-stretching  hand, 
The  bold,  good  Man  his  labor  sped 

At  Nature's  pure  command  ; 
Heart-soothed,  and  busy  as  a  wren, 

While,  in  a  hollow  nook, 
She  moulds  her  sight-eluding  den 

Above  a  murmuring  brook. 


n 


His  task  accomplished  to  his  mind, 

The  twain,  ere  break  of  day 
Creep  forth,  and  through  the  forest  wind 

Their  solitary  way  ; 
Few  words  they  speak,  nor  dare  to  slack 

Their  pace  from  mile  to  mile. 
Till  they  have  crossed  the  quaking  marsh, 

And  reached  the  lonely  Isle. 

The  .-.iti  above  the  pine-trees  showed 

A  bright  and  cheerful  face, 
And  Ina  looked  for  her  abode, 

The  promised  hiding-place  ; 


THE    RUSSIAN    FUGITIVE.  PI 

She  sought  in  vain :  the  Woodman  smiled  ; 

No  threshold  could  be  seen, 
Nor  roof,  nor  window  ;  —  all  seemed  wild 

As  it  had  ever  been. 

Advancing,  you  might  guess  an  hour, 

The  front  with  such  nice  care 
Is  masked,  "  if  house  it  be  or  bower," 

But  in  they  entered  are  ; 
As  shaggy  as  were  wall  and  roof 

With  branches  intertwined, 
So  smooth  was  all  within,  air-proof. 

And  delicately  lined  : 

And  hearth  was  there,  and  maple  dish, 

And  cups  in  seemly  rows. 
And  couch,  —  all  ready  to  a  wish 

For  nurture  or  repose  ; 
And  Heaven  doth  to  her  virtue  grant 

That  there  she  may  abide 
In  solitude,  with  every  want 

By  cautious  love  supplied. 

No  queen,  before  a  shouting  crowd, 

Led  on  in  bridal  state, 
E'er  struggled  with  a  heart  so  proud, 

Entering  her  palace  gate  ; 
Rejoiced  to  bid  the  world  farewell, 

No  saintly  anchoress 
E'er  took  possession  of  her  cell 

With  deeper  thankfulness. 


go  MISCELLANEODo    POKMS. 

"  Father  of  all,  upon  thy  care 

Aiid  mercy  am  I  thrown  ; 
Be  thou  my  safeguard  !  "  —  such  her  prayer 

When  she  was  left  alone, 
Kneehng  amid  the  wilderness 

When  joy  had  passed  away, 
And  smiles,  fond  efforts  of  distress 

To  hide  what  they  betray ! 

The  prayer  is  heard,  the  Saints  have  seen. 

Diffused  through  form  and  face, 
Resolves  devotedly  serene  ; 

That  monumental  grace 
Of  Faith,  which  doth  all  passions  tame 

That  Reason  should  control ; 
And  shows  in  the  untrembling  frame 

A  statue  of  the  soul. 


PART  III. 


'T  IS  sung  in  ancient  minstrelsy 

That  Phoebus  wont  to  wear 
The  leaves  of  any  pleasant  tree 

Around  his,  golden  hair  ; 
Till  Daphne,  desperate;  with  pursuit 

Of  his  imperious  love, 
Al  ln'r  own  prayer  transformed,  took  root, 

A  laurel  in  I  lie  grove. 


THE    KUSSXAN    FUGITIVE.  63 

Then  did  the  prnitent  adorn 

His  brow  with  laurel  green  ; 
And  'raid  his  bright  locks  never  shorn 

No  meaner  leaf  was  seen  ; 
And  poets  sage,  through  every  age, 

About  their  temples  wound 
The  bay  ;  and  conquerors  thanked  tne  Sods 

With  laurel  chaplets  crowned. 

Into  the  mists  of  fabling  Time 

So  far  runs  back  the  praise 
Of  beauty,  that  disdains  to  climb 

Along  forbidden  ways  ; 
That  scorns  temptation  ;  power  defies 

"Where  mutual  love  is  not : 
And  to  the  tomb  for  rescue  flies 

When  life  would  be  a  bio* 

To  this  fair  Votaress,  a  fate 

More  mild  doth  Heaven  ordain 
Upon  her  Island  desolate  ; 

And  words,  not  breathed  in  vain, 
Might  tell  what  intercourse  she  found 

Her  silence  to  endear  ; 
What  birds  she  tamed,  what  flowers  the  ground 

Sent  forth  her  peace  to  cheer. 

To  one  mute  Presence,  above  all 

Her  soothed  affections  clung, 
A  picture  on  the  cabin  wall 

By  Russian  u>age  hung,  — 


54  MISCELLANEOUS    I'OEMS. 

The  Mother-maid,  whose  countenance  bright 

With  love  abridged  the  day  ; 
And,  communed  with  by  taper  light, 

Chased  spectral  fears  away. 

And  oft,  as  either  Guardian  came, 

The  joy  in  that  retreat 
Might  any  common  friendship  shame, 

So  high  their  hearts  would  beat ; 
And  to  the  lone  Recluse,  whate'er 

They  brought,  each  visiting 
"Was  hke  the  crowding  of  the  year 

With  a  new  burst  of  spring. 

But  when  she  of  her  Parents  thought, 

The  pang  w^as  hard  to  bear ; 
And,  if  w4th  all  things  not  enwrought, 

That  trouble  still  is  near. 
Before  her  flight  she  had  not  dared 

Their  constancy  to  pi'ove  ; 
Too  much  the  hei'oic  Daughter  feared 

The  weakness  of  their  love. 

Dark  is  the  past  to  them,  and  daric 

The  future  still  must  be, 
Till  pitying  Saints  conduct  her  Dark 

Into  a  safer  sea,  — 
Or  gentle  Nature  close  her  ey68. 

And  set  her  Spirit  free 
From  tin;  altar  of  this  sacrifice. 

In  vestal  purity. 


THE    RUSSIAN    FUGITIVE.  65 

Yet,  when  above  the  forest-glooms 

The  white  swans  southward  passed. 
High  as  the  pitch  of  their  swift  plumes 

Her  fancy  rode  the  blast ; 
And  bore  her  toward  the  fields  of  France, 

Her  Father's  native  land, 
To  mingle  in  the  rustic  dance, 

The  happiest  of  the  band  ! 

Of  those  beloved  fields  she  oft 

Had  heard  her  Father  tell 
In  phrase  that  now  with  echoes  aofl 

Haunted  her  lonely  cell ; 
She  saw  the  hereditary  bowers, 

She  heard  the  ancestral  stream  ; 
The  Kremlin  and  its  haughty  towers 

Forgotten  like  a  dream  1 


PART  IV. 

The  ever-changing  Moon  had  traced 

Twelve  times  her  monthly  round. 
When  through  the  unfrequented  Waste 

Was  heard  a  startling  sound  ; 
A  shout  thrice  sent  from  one  who  chased 

At  speed  a  wounded  deer, 
Bounding  through  branches  interlaced. 

And  where  the  wood  was  clear, 
ror,.  V  b 


so  WISCELLANKOUS    I'OEMS. 

The  fainting  creature  took  the  marsh, 

And  toward  the  Island  fled, 
"While  plovers  screamed,  with  tumult  har^sh, 

Above  his  antlered  head  ; 
This  Ina  saw,  and,  pale  with  fear, 

Shi'unk  to  her  citadel; 
The  desperate  deer  rushed  on,  and  near 

The  tangled  covert  fell. 

Across  the  marsh,  the  game  in  view, 

The  Hunter  followed  fast, 
Nor  paused,  till  o'er  the  stag  he  blew 

A  death-proclaiming  blast ; 
Then,  resting  on  her  upright  mind, 

Came  forth  the  Maid.     "  In  me 
Behold,"  she  said,  "  a  stricken  Hind 

Pursued  by  destiny ! 

"  From  your  deportment,  Sir  !  I  deem 

That  you  have  worn  a  sword. 
And  will  not  hold  in  light  esteem 

A  suffering  woman's  word  ; 
Tliere  is  my  covert,  there  perchance 

I  might  have  lain  concealed. 
My  fortunes  hid,  my  countenance 

Not  even  to  you  revealed. 

"Tears  might  be  shed,  and  I  might  pray, 

Croucliing  and  terriiied. 
That  wliat  has  been  unveiled  to-day 

You  would  in  mystery  hide  ; 


THE    KUSSIAN    FUGITIVE.  67 

But  I  will  not  defile  with  dust 

The  knee  that  bends  to  adore 
The  God  in  heaven  ; — attend,  be  just ; 

This  ask  I,  and  no  more  ! 

**  I  speak  not  of  the  winter's  cold, 

For  summer's  heat  exchanged, 
While  I  liave  lodged  in  this  rough  hold, 

From  social  life  estranged ; 
Nor  jet  of  trouble  and  alarms  : 

High  Heaven  is  my  defence ; 
And  every  season  has  soft  arms 

For  injured  Innocence. 

"  From  Moscow  to  the  Wilderness 

It  was  my  choice  to  come, 
Lest  virtue  should  be  harborless, 

And  honor  want  a  home  ; 
And  happy  were  I,  if  the  Czar 

Retain  his  lawless  will, 
To  end  life  here  like  this  poor  deer, 

Or  a  lamb  on  a  green  hill." 


o"- 


"  Are  you  the  Maid,"  the  Stranger  cried, 

"  From  Gallic  parents  sprung, 
Whose  vanishing  was  rumored  wide, 

Sad  theme  for  every  tongue  ? 
Who  foiled  an  Emperor's  eager  quest  ? 

You,  Lady,  forced  to  wear 
These  rude  habiliments,  and  rest 

Your  head  in  this  dark  lair !  " 


68  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

rUit  wonder,  pity,  soon  were  quelled; 

And  in  her  face  and  mien 
The  soul's  pure  brightness  he  beheld 

Without  a  veil  between : 
He  loved,  he  hoped, — a  holy  flame 

Kindled  'mid  rapturous  tears  ; 
Tlie  passion  of  a  moment  came 

As  on  the  wings  of  years. 

"  Such  bounty  is  no  gift  of  chance," 

Exclaimed  he ;  "  righteous  Heaven, 
Preparing  your  deliverance, 

To  me  the  charge  hath  given. 
The  Czar  full  oft  in  words  and  deeds 

Is  stormy  and  self-willed; 
But  when  the  Lady  Catherine  pleads, 

His  violence  is  stilled. 

"  Leave  open  to  my  wish  the  course, 

And  I  to  her  will  go ; 
From  that  humane  and  heavenly  source 

Good,  only  good,  can  flow." 
Faint  sanction  given,  the  Cavalier 

Was  eager  to  depart, 
Though  question  followed  question,  dear 

To  the  Maiden's  filial  heart. 

Light  was  his  step,  —  his  hopes,  more  light, 

Kept  pace  with  his  desires  ; 
And  the  fiflh  morning  gave  him  signt 

01"  Moscow's  glittering  spires. 


THE    RUSSIAN    fUGITIVE.  69 

He  sued  :  —  heart-smitten  by  the  wrong, 

To  the  lorn  Fugitive 
The  Emperor  sent  a  pledge  as  strong 

As  sovereign  power  could  give. 

A  more  than  mighty  change  !     If  e'er 

Amazement  rose  to  pain, 
And  joy's  excess  pi'oduced  a  fear 

Of  something  void  and  vain, 
'T  was  when  the  Parents,  who  had  mourned 

So  long  the  lost  as  dead, 
Beheld  their  only  Child  returned. 

The  household  floor  to  tread. 

Soon  gratitude  gave  way  to  love 

Within  the  Maiden's  breast : 
Delivered  and  Deliverer  move 

In  bridal  garments  drest ; 
Meek  Catherine  had  her  own  reward ; 

The  Czar  bestowed  a  dower  ; 
And  universal  Moscow  shared 

The  triumph  of  that  hour. 

Flowers  strewed  the  ground ;  the  nuptial  feast 

"Was  held  with  costly  state; 
And  there,  'mid  many  a  noble  guest. 

The  Foster-parents  sate ; 
Encouraged  by  the  imperial  eye. 

They  shrank  not  into  shade  ; 

Great  was  tlieir  bliss,  the  honor  high 

To  them  and  nature  paid  ! 

]830 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


I. 

ID   THE  GROUNDS   OF   COLEORTON,  THE  SEAT  OF  SIR  OEOROl 
BEAUMONT,   BART.,  LEICESTERSHIRE. 

1808. 

The  embowering  rose,  the  acacia,  and  the  pine 
Will  not  unwillingly  their  place  resign, 
If  but  the  Cedar  thrive  that  near  them  stands, 
Planted   by   Beaumont's    and   by    Wordsworth's 

hands. 
One  wooed  the  silent  Art  with  studious  pains  : 
These   groves    have   heard   the   other's   pensive 

strains  ; 
Devoted  thus,  their  spirits  did  unite 
By  interchange  of  knowledge  and  delight. 
May  Nature's  kindliest  powers  sustain  the  Tree, 
And  Love  protect  it  from  all  injury  ! 
Ai)d  when  its  potent  branches,  wide  out-thrown, 
Darken  the  brow  of  this  memorial  Stone, 
Here  may  some  Painter  sit  in  future  days. 
Some  future  Poet  meditate  his  lays  ; 
Nol  mindless  of  that  distant  age  renowned 


INSCRIPTIONS.  /  1 

When  Inspiration  hovered  o'er  this  ground, 
The  haunt  of  him  who  sang  how  spear  and  shield 
In  civil  conflict  met  on  Bosworth-field  ; 
And  of  that  famous  Youth,  full  soon  removed 
From  earth,  perhaps  by  Shakespeare's  self  ap- 
proved, 
Fletcher's  Associate,  Jonson's  Friend  beloved. 


II. 

IX    A    GARDEN   OF   THE   SAME. 

Oft  is  the  medal  faithful  to  its  trust 

When  temples,  columns,  towers,  are  laid  in  dust ; 

And  't  is  a  common  ordinance  of  fate 

That  .things  obscure  and  small  outlive  the  great : 

Hence,  when  yon  mansion  and  the  flowery  ti'im 

Of  this  fair  garden,  and  its  alleys  dim. 

And  all  its  stately  trees,  are  passed  away. 

This  little  Niche,  unconscious  of  decay. 

Perchance  may  still  survive.     And  be  it  known 

That  it  was  scoped  within  the  living  stone,  — 

Not  by  the  sluggish  and  ungrateful  pains 

Of  laborer  plodding  for  his  daily  gains, 

But  by  an  industry  that  wrought  in  love  ; 

With  help  from  female  hands,  that  proudly  strove 

To  aid  the  work,  what  time  these  walks  and  bowers 

Were  shaped  to  cheer  dai-k  Winter's  lonely  hours. 


72  IKSCRIPTIONS. 


III. 


tV'RITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  SIR  GEORGE  BEAUMONT 
UAKT.,  AND  IN  HIS  NAME,  FOR  AN  URN,  PLACED  BY  HIM 
AT  THE  TERMINATION  OF  A  NEWLY  PLANTED  AVENUE, 
IN  THE   SAME    GROUNDS. 

Ye  Lime-trees,  ranged  before  this  hallowed  Urn, 

Shoot  forth  with  livelier  power  at  Spring's  return  ; 

And  be  not  slow  a  stately  growth  to  rear 

Of  pillars,  branching  off  from  year  to  year, 

Till  they  have  learned  to  frame  a  darksome  aisle ;  — 

That  may  recall  to  mind  that  awful  Pile 

Where  Reynolds,  'mid  our  country's  noblest  dead, 

In  tlie  last  sanctity  of  fame  is  laid. 

■ —  There,  though  by  right  the  excelling  Painter 

sleep 
Where  Death  and  Glory  a  joint  sabbath  keep, 
Yet  not  the  less  his  Spirit  would  hold  dear 
Self-hidden  praise,  and  Friendship's  private  tear 
Hence,  on  my  patrimonial  grounds,  have  I 
Raised  this  frail  tribute  to  his  memory  ; 
From  youth  a  zealous  follower  of  the  Art 
That  he  professed  ;  attached  to  him  in  heart ; 
Admiring,  loving,  and  with  grief  and  pride 
Feeling  what  England  lost  when  Reynolds  died. 


INSCRIPTIONS.  73 


IV. 

FOR  A    SEAT  IN  THE  GEOVES   OF    COLEOKTON. 

Beneath  yon  eastern  ridge,  the  craggy  bound, 
Rugged  and  high,  of  Charn  wood's  forest  ground, 
Stand  yet,  but,  Stranger  !  hidden  from  thy  view, 
The  ivied  Ruins *of  forlorn  Grace  Dieu  ; 
Erst  a  rehgious  House,  which  day  and  night 
With  hymns  resounded,  and  the  chanted  i-ite : 
And  when  those  rites  had  ceased,  the  Spot  gave 

birth 
To  honorable  Men  of  various  worth  : 
There,  on  the  margin  of  a  streamlet  wild. 
Did  Francis  Beaumont  sport,  an  eager  child ; 
There,  under  shadow  of  the  neighboring  i-ocks. 
Sang  youthful  tales  of  shepherds  and  their  flocks  ; 
Unconscious  prelude  to  heroic  themes. 
Heart-breaking  tears,  and  melancholy  dreams 
Of  slighted  love,  and  scorn,  and  jealous  rage. 
With  which  his  genius  shook  the  buskined  stage. 
Communities  are  lost,  and  Empires  die. 
And  things  of  holy  use  unhallowed  lie  ; 
They  perish  ;  —  but  the  Intellect  can  raise. 
From  airy  words  alone,  a  Pile  that  ne'(;r  decays 

1808. 


74  INSCRll'TIONS. 


tVKlTTEN  WITH  A  PENCIL  UPON  A  STONE  IN  THE  WALL 
OF  THE  HOUSE  (AN  OUT-HOUSE),  ON  THE  ISLAM>  AT 
GRASMERE. 

RuDK  is  this  Edifice,  and  thou  hast  seen 
Buildings,  albeit  rude,  that  have  maintained 
Proportions  more  harmonious,  arid  approached 
To  closer  fellowship  with  ideal  grace. 
But  take  it  in  good  part :  —  alas  !  the  poor 
Vitruvius  of  our  village  had  no  help 
Fi'om  the  great  City ;  never,  upon  leaves 
Of  red  Morocco  folio  saw  displayed, 
In  long  succession,  pre-existing  ghosts 
Of  Beauties  yet  unborn,  —  the  rustic  Lodge 
Antique,  and  Cottage  with  vei'andah  graced, 
Nor  lacking,  for  lit  company,  alcove, 
Green-house,  shell-gx'ot,  and  moss-lined  hermitage. 
Thou  seest  a  homely  Pile,  yet  to  these  walls 
The  heifer  comes  in  the  snow-storm,  and  here 
The  new-dropped  lamb  finds  shelter  from  the  wind. 
And  hither  does  one  Poet  sometimes  row 
lli>  pinnace,  a  small  vagrant  barge,  up-piled 
With  plenteous  store  of  heath  and  withered  fern, 
(A  lading  which  he  with  his  sickle  cuts, 
Among  the  mountains,)  and  beneath  this  roof 
1I»;  makes  his  summer  couch,  and  here  at  noon 
Spreads  out  his  limbs,  while, yet  unshorn,  the  Shrej^ 
Punting  beneath  the  burden  of  their  wool, 
Lie  round  Mm,  even  as  if  they  were  a  part 


INSCRIPTIONS.  75 

3f  his  own  Household :  nor,  while  from  his  bed 
He  looks,  through   the  open    door-place,  toward 

the  lake 
And  to  the  stirring  breezes,  does  he  want 
Creations  lovely  as  the  work  of  sleep,  — 
Fair  sights,  and  visions  of  romantic  joy  ! 


VI. 

wk:ttkn  ^vlTH  a  slate  pencil  on  a  stone,  on  the  sinE 
OF  the  biountain  of  black  comb. 

Stay,  bold  Adventurer ;  rest  awhile  thy  limbs 
On  this  commodious  Seat !  for  much  remains 
Of  hard  ascent  before  thou  reach  the  top 
Of  this  huge  Eminence, — from  blackness  named 
And  to  far-travelled  storms  of  sea  and  land 
A  favorite  spot  of  tournament  and  war  ! 
But  thee  may  no  such  boisterous  visitants 
Molest;  may  gentle  breezes  fan  thy  brow^ 
And  neither  cloud  conceal,  nor  misty  air 
Bedim,  the  grand  terraqueous  spectacle, 
From  centre  to  circumference  unveiled ! 
Know%  if  thou  grudge  not  to  prolong  thy  rest, 
That  on  the  summit  whitlier  thou  art  bound 
A  geographic  Laborer  pitched  his  tent, 
With  books  supplied  and  instruments  of  art. 
To  measure  height  and  distance ;  lonely  task, 
Week  after  week  pursued  !  —  To  him  was  given 


7G  INSCRIPTIONS. 

Full  many  a  glimpse  (but  sparingly  bes>towed 

'Ju  timid  man)  of  Nature's  processes 

Upon  the  exalted  hills.     He  made  report 

That  once,  while  there  he  plied  his  studious  work 

Within  that  canvas  Dwelling,  colors,  lines, 

And  the  whole  surface  of  the  out-spread  map, 

Became  invisible  :  for  all  around 

Had     darkness     fallen,  —  unthreatened,     unpro- 

claimed,  — 
As  if  the  golden  day  itself  had  been 
Extinguished  in  a  moment ;  total  gloom, 
In  which  he  sat  alone,  with  unclosed  eyes, 
Upon  the  bUnded  mountain's  silent  top  ! 

1813. 


vn. 


WRITTEN  WITH  A  SLATE  PENCIL  UPON  A  STOXE,  THE  LAK- 
t.libT  OK  A  HEAP  LYING  NEAK  A  DESEliTEU  QUAKUY,  LI'OX 
ONE  OF  THE    ISLANDS  AT  RYDAL. 

Stkaxgkr  !  this  hillock  of  misshapen  stones 

Li  not  a  Ruin  spared  or  made  by  time. 

Nor,  as  perchance  thou  rashly  deem'st,  the  Cairn 

Of  some  old  British  Chief:  't  is  nothinj;  more 

Than  the  rude  embryo  of  a  little  Dome 

^  )r  l^leasure-house,  once  destined  to  be  built 

Among  the  birch-trees  of  this  rocky  isle. 

!Jiit,  us  it  clianced,  Sir  William  having  learned 


INSCRIPTIONS.  77 

That  trom  the  shore  a  full-grown  man  might  wade, 
And  make  himself  a  freeman  of  this  spot 
At  any  hour  he  chose,  the  prudent  Knight 
Desisted,  and  the  quarry  and  the  mound 
Are  monuments  of  his  unfinished  task. 
The  block  on  which  these  lines  are  traced,  perhaps, 
Was  once  selected  as  the  corner-stone 
Of  that  intended  Pile,  which  would  have  been 
Some  quaint  odd  plaything  of  elaborate  skill, 
So  that,  I  guess,  the  linnet  and  the  thrush, 
And  other  little  builders  who  dwell  here, 
Had  wondered  at  the  work.     But  blame  him  not, 
For  old  Sir  William  was  a  gentle  Knight, 
Bred  in  this  vale,  to  which  he  appertained 
With  all  his  ancestry.     Then  peace  to  him, 
And  for  the  outrage  which  he  had  devised, 
Entire  forgiveness  !  —  But  if  thou  art  one 
On  fire  with  thy  impatience  to  become 
An  inmate  of  these  mountains,  —  if,  disturbed 
By  beautiful  conceptions,  thou  hast  hewn 
Out  of  the  quiet  rock  the  elements 
Or'  thy  trim  Mansion  destined  soon  to  blaze 
In  snow-white  splendor,  —  think  again ;  and,  tauglil 
By  old  Sir  William  and  his  quarry,  leave 
Tliv  fra^raents  to  the  bramble  and  the  rose ; 
There  let  the  vernal  slow-worm  sun  himself. 
And  let  the  redbreast  hop  from  stone  to  stone. 

isoo. 


78  INSCRIPTIONS. 


vin. 


In  these  fair  vales  hatli  many  a  Tree 

At  Wordsworth's  suit  been  spared  ; 
And  from  the  builder's  hand  this  Stone, 
For  some  rude  beauty  of  its  own, 

Was  rescued  by  the  Bard  : 
So  let  it  rest ;  and  time  will  come 

When  here  the  tender-hearted 
May  heave  a  gentle  sigh  for  him, 

As  one  of  the  departed. 


1830. 


IX. 


The  massy  Ways,  carried  across  these  heights 
By  Roman  perseverance,  are  destroyed, 
Or  hiddf'u  under  ground,  like  sleeping  worms. 
Mow  venture  then  to  hope  that  Time  will  spare 
This  humble  Walk?     Yet  on  the  mountain's  side 
A  Poet's  hand  first  shaped  it ;  and  the  ste[)s 
Of  tliat  same  Bard  —  repeated  to  and  fro 
At  morn,  at  noon,  and  under  moonlight  skies 
Tlii'ough  the  vicissitudes  of  many  a  year  — 
P^orbade  the  weeds  to  creep  o'er  its  gray  line. 
No  longer,  scattering  to  the  heedless  winds 
The  vofal  raptures  of  fresh  poesy, 
Si'all  lie  frequent  these  precincts  ;  locked  no  uiore 


XNSCUIPTIONS.  "    79 

hi  earnest  converse  with  beloved  Friends, 
Here  will  he  gather  stores  of  ready  bliss. 
As  from  the  beds  and  borders  of  a  garden 
Choice  flowers  are  gathered  !     But,  if  Power  may 

spring 
Out  of  a  farewell  yearning,  —  favored  more 
Than  kindred  wishes  mated  suitably 
With  vain  regrets,  —  the  Exile  would  consign 
This  "Walk,  his  loved  possession,  to  the  care 
Of  those  pure  Minds  that  reverence  the  Muse. 

1826 


X. 


IK8CIUPTION8  SUPPOSED   TO   BE   FOPND   IN  AND   NEAR 

A  hermit's  cell. 


1818. 


Hopes,  what  are  they  ?  —  Beads  of  morning 

Strung  on  slender  blades  of  grass ; 

Or  a  spider's  web  adorning 

In  a  strait  and  treacherous  pass. 

What  are  fears  but  voices  airy, 
Whispering  harm  where  harm  is  not, 
And  deluding  the  unwary 
Till  the  fatal  bolt  is  shot  ? 


80  INSCRIPTIONS. 

What  is  glory  ?  —  in  the  socket 
See  how  dying  tapers  fare  ! 
What  is  pride  ?  —  a  whizzing  rocket 
That  would  emulate  a  star. 

What  is  friendship  ?  —  do  not  trust  her, 
Nor  the  vows  which  she  has  made ; 
Diamonds  dart  their  brightest  lustre 
From  a  palsy-shaken  head. 

What  is  truth  ?  —  a  staff  rejected ; 
Duty  ?  —  an  unwelcome  clog  ; 
,  Joy  ?  —  a  moon  by  fits  reflected 
In  a  swamp  or  watery  bog  ; 

Bright,  as  if  through  ether  steering, 
To  the  Traveller's  eye  it  shone : 
He  hath  hailed  it  reappearing,  — 
And  as  quickly  it  is  gone  ; 

Such  is  Joy,  —  as  quickly  hidden, 
Or  misshapen  to  the  sight, 
And  by  sullen  weeds  forbidden 
To  resume  its  native  light. 


o 


What  is  youth  ?  —  a  dancing  billow, 
(Winds  behind,  and  rocks  before  !) 
Age  ?  —  a  drooping,  tottering  willow 
On  a  flat  and  lazy  shore. 


INSCRIPTIONS.  SI 

What  is  peace  ?  —  when  pain  is  over 
And  love  ceases  to  rebel, 
Let  the  last  faint  sight  discover 
That  precedes  the  passing-knell  I 


XI. 

INSCRIBED  UPON  A  ROCK. 

n. 

Pause,  Traveller !  whosoe'er  thou  be 
Whom  chance  may  lead  to  this  retreat, 
Where  silence  yields  reluctantly 
Even  to  the  fleecy  straggler's  bleat; 

Give  voice  to  what  my  hand  shall  trace, 
And  fear  not  lest  an  idle  sound 
Of  words  unsuited  to  the  place 
Disturb  its  solitude  profound. 

I  saw  this  Rock,  while  vernal  air 
Blew  softly  o'er  the  russet  heath, 
Uphold  a  Monument  as  fair 
As  church  or  abbey  furnisheth. 

Unsullied  did  it  meet  the  day, 
Like  marble,  white,  like  ether,  pure ; 
As  if,  beneath,  some  hero  lay. 
Honored  with  costliest  sepulture. 

/OL      V  6 


P>2  IXSCUIPTIONS. 

My  fancy  kindled  as  I  gazed ; 
And,  ever  as  the  sun  shone  forth, 
The  flattered  structure  glistened,  blazed, 
And  seemed  the  px'oudest  thing  on  earth. 

But  frost  had  reared  the  gorgeous  Pile, 
Unsound  as  those  which  Fortune  builds, 
To  undermine  with  secret  guile. 
Sapped  by  the  very  beam  that  gilds. 

And,  while  I  gazed,  with  sudden  shock 
Fell  the  whole  Fabric  to  the  ground ; 
And  naked  left  this  dripping  Rock, 
With  shapeless  ruin  spread  around  ! 


XII. 

in. 


Hast  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant, 
Bubbles  gliding  under  ice, 
]>odied  forth  and  evanescent, 
No  one  knows  by  what  d(!vice  ? 

Such  are  thoughts!  —  A  wind-swept  meadow 

Mimicking  a  troubled  sea. 

Such  is  life  ;  and  death  a  shadow 

From  (lie  rock  eternity  ! 


INSCRIPTIONS.  H3 

XIII. 

SEAB  THE  SPKING    OF  THE  HEEMITAGK. 
IV. 

Troubled  long  with  warring  notions 
Long  impatient  of  thy  rod, 
I  resign  my  soul's  emotions 
Unto  Thee,  mysterious  God ! 

What  avails  the  kindly  shelter 
Yielded  by  this  craggy  rent, 
If  my  spirit  toss  and  welter 
On  the  waves  of  discontent  ? 

Parching  Summer  hath  no  warrant 
To  consume  this  crystal  Well; 
Rains,  that  make  each  riU  a  tori'ent. 
Neither  sully  it  nor  swell. 

Thus,  dishonoring  not  her  station, 
Would  my  Life  present  to  Thee, 
Gracious  God,  the  pure  oblation 
Of  divine  tranquillity ! 


XIV. 


V. 

Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest, 
Deceitfully  goes  forth  the  Morn  ; 


B4  INSCKIPTIONS. 

Not  seldom  Evening  in  the  west 
Sinks  smilingly  forsworn. 

The  smoothest  seas  will  sometimes  prove, 
To  the  confiding  Bark,  untrue ; 
And,  if  she  trust  the  stars  above, 
They  can  be  treacherous  too. 

The  umbrageous  Oak,  in  pomp  outspread, 
Full  oft,  when  storms  the  welkin  rend, 
Draws  lightning  down  upon  the  head 
It  promised  to  defend. 

But  Thou  art  true,  incarnate  Lord, 
Who  didst  vouchsafe  for  man  to  die ; 
Thy  smile  is  sure,  thy  plighted  word 
No  change  can  falsify  ! 

I  bent  before  thy  gi-acious  throne. 
And  asked  for  peace  on  suppliant  knee  ; 
And  peace  was  given,  —  nor  peace  alone. 
But  faith  sublimed  to  ecstasy  ! 


XV. 

FOK    TIIK    SPOT    WIIKRIC    THE    IIKpMITAOE   STOOD    ON     ST. 
HEKBKUT'a   ISLAND,    DEUWENT-WATKK. 

Iv  thou  in  the  dear  love  of  sonie  one  Friend 
[last  l)een  so  happy  tiiat  thou  know'st  what  thoughts 


LNSCRIPTIOXS.  85 

Will  sometimes  in  the  happiness  of  love 
Make  the  heai-t  sink,  then  wilt  thou  reverence 
This  quiet  spot ;  and,  Stranger  !  not  unmoved 
Wilt  thou  behold  this  shapeless  heap  of  stones, 
The  desolate  ruins  of  St.  Herbert's  Cell. 
Here  stood  his  threshold ;  here  was  spread  the  root 
That  sheltered  him,  a  self-secluded  Man, 
After  long  exercise  in  social  cares 
And  offices  humane,  intent  to  adore 
The  Deity,  with  undistracted  mind, 
And  meditate  on  everlasting  things, 
In  utter  solitude.  —  But  he  had  left 
A  Fellow-laborer,  whom  the  good  Man  loved 
As  his  own  soul.     And  when,  with  eye  upraised 
To  heaven,  he  knelt  before  the  crucifix, 
"While  o'er  the  Lake  the  cataract  of  Lodore 
Pealed  to  his  orisons,  and  when  he  paced 
Along  the  beach  of  this  small  isle  and  thought 
Of  his  Companion,  he  would  pray  that  both 
(Now  that  their  earthly  duties  were  fulfilled) 
Might  die  in  the  same  moment.     Nor  in  vain 
So  prayed  he :  —  as  our  chronicles  report. 
Though  here  the  Hermit  numbered  his  last  day 
Far  from  St.  Cuthbert  his  beloved  Friend, 
Those  holy  Men  both  died  in  the  same  hour. 

1800. 


B6  INSCRIPTIONS. 


XVI. 

ON  THE  BANKS  OF  A  ROCKY  STREAM. 

Behold  an  emblem  of  our  human  mind, 

Crowded  with  thoughts  that  need  a  settled  home, 

Yet,  like  to  eddying  balls  of  foam 

Witliin  this  whirlpool,  they  each  other  chase 

Round  and  round,  and  neither  find 

An  outlet  nor  a  resting-place  ! 

Stranger,  if  such  disquietude  be  thine, 

Fall  on  thy  knees  and  sue  for  help  divine. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  CHAUCER. 

MODERNIZED. 


I. 

THE  PRIORESS'  TALE. 

"  Call  up  him  who  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold." 


In  the  following  Poem  no  further  deviation  from  the  original 
has  been  made  than  was  necessary  for  the  fluent  reading  and 
instant  understanding  of  the  Author:  so  much,  however, 
is  the  language  altered  since  Chaucer's  time,  especially  in 
pronunciation,  that  much  was  removed,  and  its  place  sup- 
plied with  as  little  incongruity  as  possible.  The  ancient 
accent  has  been  retained  in  a  few  conjunctions,  as  ako  and 
alway,  from  a  conviction  that  such  sprinklings  of  antiquity 
would  be  admitted,  by  persons  of  taste,  to  have  a  graceful  ac 
cordance  with  the  subject.  The  fierce  bigotry  of  the  Prioress 
forms  a  fine  back-ground  for  her  tender-hearted  sympathies 
with  the  Mother  and  Child;  and  the  mode  in  which  the  story 
is  told  amply  atones  for  the  extravagance  of  the  miracle. 

I. 

"0  Lord, our  Lord!  how  wondrouslj,"  quoth  she, 
"  Thy  name  in  this  large  world  is  spread  abroad  ! 
For  not  alone  by  men  of  dignity 
Thy  worship  is  performed  and  precious  laud ; 


3S  SELECTIONS    FROM    CHAUCER. 

But  by  the  mouths  of  childi-en,  gracious  God  ! 
Thy  goodness  is  set  forth  ;  they  when  they  lie 
Upon  the  breast  thy  name  do  glorify. 

n. 

Wherefore  in  praise,  the  worthiest  that  I  may, 

Jesu  !  of  thee,  and  the  white  Lily-flower 

Which  did  thee  bear,  and  is  a  Maid  for  aye, 

To  tell  a  story  I  will  use  my  power ; 

Not  that  I  may  increase  her  honor's  dower, 

For  she  herself  is  honor,  and  the  root 

Of  goodness,  next  her  Son,  our  soul's  best  boot. 

in. 

0  Mother  Maid  !  0  Maid  and  Mother  free  ! 
O  bush  unburnt !  burning  in  Moses'  sight ! 
That  down  didst  ravish  from  the  Deity, 
Through  humbleness,  the  spirit  that  did  alight 
Upon  thy  heart,  whence,  through  that  glory's  might, 
Conceived  was  the  Father's  sapience, 
Help  me  to  tell  it  in  thy  reverence! 

IV. 

Lady  !  thy  goodness,  thy  magnificence. 

Thy  virtue,  and  thy  great  humility, 

Surpass  all  science  and  all  utterance ; 

For  sometimes.  Lady  !  ere  men  pray  to  thee 

Thou  goest  before  in  thy  benignity. 

The  light  to  us  vouchsafing  to  our  prayer, 

Td  be  our  guide  unto  thy  Son  so  dear. 


THE   PEIOUESS'    TALE.  89 


My  knowledge  is  so  weak,  0  blissful  Queen ! 
To  tell  abroad  thy  mighty  worthiness, 
That  I  the  weight  of  it  may  not  sustain ; 
But  as  a  child  of  twelve  months  old  or  less, 
That  laboreth  his  language  to  express. 
Even  so  fare  I ;  and  therefore,  I  thee  pray, 
Guide  thou  my  song  which  I  of  thee  shall  say. 

VI. 

There  was  in  Asia,  in  a  mighty  town, 

'Mong  Christian  folk,  a  street  where  Jews  might  be, 

Assigned  to  them  and  given  them  for  their  own 

By  a  great  Lord,  for  gain  and  usury. 

Hateful  to  Christ  and  to  his  company ; 

And  through  this  street  who  Hst  might  ride  and  wend ; 

Free  was  it,  and  unbarred  at  either  end. 

vn. 

A  little  school  of  Christian  people  stood 
Down  at  the  further  end,  in  which  there  were 
A  nest  of  children  come  of  Christian  blood, 
That  learned  in  that  school  from  year  to  year 
Such  sort  of  doctrine  as  men  used  there. 
That  is  to  say,  to  sing  and  read  also. 
As  little  children  in  their  childhood  do. 

viit. 

Among  these  children  was  a  Widow's  son, 
A  little  scholar,  scarcely  seven  years  old, 
Wlio  day  by  day  unto  this  school  luith  gone, 


90  SELECTION?    FROM    CHAUCER. 

And  eke,  when  he  the  image  did  behold 
Of  Jesu's  Mother,  as  he  liad  been  told, 
This  Child  was  wont  to  kneel  adown  and  say 
Ave  3farie,  as  he  goeth  by  the  way. 

IX. 

This  "Widow  thus  her  little  Son  hath  taught 
Our  blissful  Lady,  Jesu's  Mother  dear, 
To  worship  aye,  and  he  forgat  it  not ; 
For  simple  infant  hath  a  ready  ear. 
Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  youth  :  and  hence, 
Calling  to  mind  this  matter  when  I  may, 
vSaint  Nicholas  in  my  presence  standeth  aye, 
For  he  so  young  to  Christ  did  reverence. 

X. 

This  little  Child,  while  in  the  school  he  sat 
His  Primer  conning  with  an  earnest  cheer. 
The  whilst  the  rest  their  anthem-book  repeat 
The  Alma  Redemptoris  did  he  hear ; 
And  as  he  durst  he  drew  him  near  and  near, 
And  hearkened  to  the  words  and  to  the  note, 
Till  the  first  verse  he  learned  it  all  by  rote. 

XI. 

This  Latin  knew  he  nothing  what  it  said, 
For  he  too  tender  was  of  age  to  know  ; 
But  to  his  comrade  he  repaired,  and  prayed 
That  he  the  meanin"  of  this  sons;  would  show. 
And  unto  him  dechire  why  men  sing  so  ; 
This  oftentimes,  that  lie  might  be  at  case, 
This  child  did  him  beseech  on  his  bare  knees. 


THE    prioress'    TALE.  91 


xn. 


His  Schoolfellow,  who  elder  was  than  he, 

Ajis  wered  him  thus :    '  This  song,  I  have  heard  say, 

V\ras  fashioned  for  our  blissful  Lady  free ; 

Her  to  salute,  and  also  her  to  pray 

To  be  our  help  upon  our  dying  day : 

[f  there  is  more  in  this,  I  know  it  not ; 

Song  do  I  learn,  —  small  grammar  I  have  got.' 

xin. 

And  is  this  song  fashioned  in  reverence 
Of  Jesu's  Mother  ?  '    said  this  Innocent ; 
'  Now,  certes,  I  will  use  my  dihgence 
To  con  it  all  ere  Christmas-tide  be  spent ; 
Although  I  for  my  Primer  shall  be  shent, 
And  shall  be  beaten  three  times  in  an  hour, 
Our  Lady  I  will  praise  with  all  my  power.' 

xrv. 

His  Schoolfellow,  whom  he  had  so  besought, 
As  they  went  homeward,  taught  him  privily, 
And  then  he  sang  it  well  and  fearlessly, 
From  word  to  word  according  to  the  note  : 
Twice  in  a  day  it  passed  through  his  throat ; 
Homeward  and  schoolward  whensoe'er  he  went. 
On  Jesu's  Mother  fixed  was  his  intent. 

XV. 

Through  all  the  Jewry  (this  before  said  I) 
This  little  Child,  as  he  came  to  and  fro. 
Full  merrily  then  would  he  sing  and  cry, 


?2  SELKCTIONS    FROM    CHAUCER. 

0  Alma  Redemptoi-is  !  high  and  low  : 
The  sweetness  of  Christ's  Mother  pierced  so 
His  heart,  that  her  to  praise,  to  lier  to  pray, 
He  cannot  stop  his  singing  by  the  way. 

XVI 

The  Serpent,  Satan,  our  first  foe,  that  hath 

His  wasp's  nest  in  Jew's  heart,  upswelled.    *  0  woe, 

0  Hebrew  people  ! '  said  he  in  his  wrath, 

'  Is  it  an  honest  thing  ?     Shall  this  be  so  ? 
That  such  a  Boy  where'er  he  lists  shall  go 
In  your  despite,  and  sing  his  hymns  and  saws, 
Which  is  against  the  reverence  of  our  laws  1 ' 

XVII. 

From  that  day  forward  have  the  Jews  conspired 
Out  of  the  world  this  Innocent  to  chase  ; 
And  to  this  end  a  Homicide  they  hired. 
That  in  an  alley  had  a  privy  place. 
And,  as  the  Child  'gan  to  the  school  to  pace, 
This  cruel  Jew  him  seized,  and  held  him  fast 
And  cut  his  throat,  and  in  a  pit  him  cast. 

XVIII. 

1  say  that  him  into  a  pit  they  threw, 

A  loallisuine  pit,  whence  noisome  scents  exhale; 
0  cursed  folk  !  away,  ye  Ilerods  new  ! 
What  may  ycnir  ill  intentions  you  avail  ? 
Murder  will  out ;  certes  it  will  not  fail ; 
Know,  that  the  honor  of  high  God  may  spread, 
The  blood  cries  out  on  your  accursed  deed. 


THF    PRIORESS     TALE.  93 


XIX. 


L.    Martyr  'stablished  in  virginity! 
Nuw  mayst  thou  sing  aye  before  the  throne, 
Following  the  Lamb  celestial,"  quoth  she, 
"  Of  which  the  great  Evangelist,  Saint  John, 
In  Patmos  wrote,  who  saith  of  them  that  go 
Before  the  Lamb  singing  continually, 
That  never  fleshly  woman  they  did  know. 

XX. 

Now  this  poor  widow  waiteth  all  that  night 
After  her  little  Child,  and  he  came  not ; 
For  which,  by  earliest  glimpse  of  morning  light, 
With  face  all  pale  with  dread  and  busy  thought, 
She  at  the  School  and  elsewhere  him  hath  sought, 
Until  thus  far  she  learned,  that  he  had  been 
In  the  Jews'  street,  and  there  he  last  was  seen. 

XXI. 

"With  Mother's  pity  in  her  breast  inclosed 
She  goeth,  as  she  were  half  out  of  her  mind, 
To  every  place  wherein  she  hath  supposed 
By  likelihood  her  little  Son  to  find  ; 
And  ever  on  Christ's  Mother  meek  and  kind 
She  cried,  till  to  the  Jewry  she  was  brought, 
And  him  among  the  accursed  Jews  she  sought. 

XXII. 

She  asketh,  and  she  piteously  doth  pray 
To  every  Jew  that  dwelleth  in  that  place. 
To  tell  her  if  her  child  had  passed  that  way  ; 


04  SELECTIONS    FROM    CHAUCER. 

They  all  faid,  Nay  ;  but  Jesu  of  his  grace 
Gave  to  her  thought,  that  in  a  little  space 
She  for  her  Son  in  that  same  spot  did  cry- 
Where  he  was  cast  into  a  pit  hard  by. 

xxni. 

0  thou  great  God  that  dost  perform  thy  laud 

By  mouths  of  Innocents,  lo  !  here  thy  might ; 

This  gem  of  chastity,  this  emerald. 

And  eke  of  martyrdom  this  ruby  bright, 

There,  where  with  mangled  throat  he  lay  upright, 

The  Alma  Redemptoris  'gan  to  sing, 

So  loud,  that  with  his  voice  the  place  did  ring. 

XXIV. 

The  Christian  folk  that  through  the  Jewry  went 
Come  to  the  spot  in  wonder  at  the  thing ; 
And  hastily  they  for  the  Provost  sent; 
fm mediately  he  came,  not  tarrying, 
And  praiseth  Christ  that  is  our  Heavenly  King, 
And  eke  his  Mother,  honor  of  Mankind  : 
Which  done,  he  bade  that  they  the  Jews  should 
bind. 

XXV. 

This  Cliild  with  piteous  lamentation  then 
Was  taken  up,  singing  his  song  alway ; 
And  with  procession  great  and  pomp  of  men 
To  the  next  Abbey  him  they  bare  away ; 
His  Mother  swooning  by  the  body  lay  : 
And  scarcely  could  tlie  [)eople  that  were  near 
licmove  tliis  second  Rachel  from  the  bier. 


THE    PRIOEESS'    TALE.  95 

XXVI. 

Torment  aud  shameful  death  to  everj  one 
This  ProTost  doth  for  those  bad  Jews  prepare 
That  of  this  murder  wist,  and  that  anon  : 
Such  wickedness  his  judgments  cannot  spare; 
Who  will  do  evil,  evil  shall  he  bear ; 
Them  therefore  with  wild  horses  did  he  draw, 
And  after  that  he  hung  them  by  the  law. 

XX  vn. 

Upon  his  bier  this  Innocent  doth  lie 

Before  the  altar  while  the  Mass  doth  last : 

Tlie  Abbot  with  his  convent's  company 

Then  sped  themselves  to  bury  him  full  fast ; 

Aud,  when  they  holy  water  on  him  cast, 

Yet  spake  this  Child  when  sprinkled  was  the  water, 

-Ind  sang,  0  Alma  Redemptoris  Mater! 

xx\aii. 

This  Abbot,  for  he  was  a  holy  man. 

As  all  Monks  are,  or  surely  ought  to  be. 

In  supplication  to  the  Child  began, 

Thus  saying  :    '  0  dear  Child !  I  summon  thee, 

In  virtue  of  the  holy  Trinity, 

Tell  me  the  cause  why  thou  dost  sing  this  hymn, 

Since  that  thy  throat  is  cut,  as  it  doth  seem.' 

XXIX. 

'  My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I  trow,' 

Said  this  young  Child,   '  and  by  the  law  of  kind, 

\  should  have  died,  yea  many  hours  ago  , 


liG  SELECTIONS    FKO.M    CIIAUCEK. 

But  Jesus  Christ,  as  in  the  books  ye  find, 
"^^'ill  that  his  glory  last,  and  be  in  mind ; 
And,  for  the  worship  of  his  Mother  dear, 
Yet  may  I  sing,  0  Alma  !  loud  and  clear. 

XXX. 

'  This  well  of  mercy,  Jesu's  Mother  sweet. 
After  my  knowledge  I  have  lived  alway  ; 
And  in  the  hour  when  I  my  death  did  meet. 
To  me  she  came,  and  thus  to  me  did  say, 
"Thou  in  thy  dying  sing  this  holy  lay," 
As  ye  have  heard ;  and  soon  as  I  had  sung, 
Methought  she  laid  a  grain  upon  my  tongue. 

XXXI. 

'  Wherefore  I  sing,  nor  can  from  song  refrain, 
In  honor  of  that  blissful  Maiden  free. 
Till  from  my  tongue  off-taken  is  the  grain. 
And  after  that  thus  said  she  unto  me  : 
"iNIy  little  Child,  then  will  I  come  for  thee 
Soon  as  the  grain  from  off  thy  tongue  they  take : 
Be  not  dismayed,  I  will  not  thee  forsake  !  " ' 

X.\XII. 

This  holy  Monk,  this  Abbot,  him  mean  I, 
Touched  then  his  tongue,  and  took  away  the  grain 
And  he  gave  up  the  ghost  full  peacefully ; 
And,  when  the  Abbot  had  this  wonder  seen. 
His  salt  tears  trickled  down  like  showers  of  rain  ; 
And  on  his  lace  lie  droppr-d  upon  the  gi'ound, 
A.n(l  still  li"  lav  as  if  he  had  been  bound. 


THE    CUCKOO    AND    THE    NIGHTINGALE.       97 

xxxin. 
Eke  the  whole  Convent  on  the  pavement  lay, 
Weeping  and  praising  Jesu's  Mother  dear ; 
And  after  that  they  rose,  and  took  their  way. 
And  lifted  up  this  Martyr  from  the  bier, 
And  in  a  tomb  of  precious  marble  clear 
Inclosed  his  uncorrupted  body  sweet. — 
Where'er  he  be,  God  grant  us  him  to  meet ! 

XXXIV. 

Young  Hew  of  Lincoln  !  in  like  sort  laid  low 

By  cursed  Jews,  —  thing  well  and  widely  known, 

For  it  was  done  a  little  while  ago,  — 

Pray  also  thou  for  us,  while  here  we  tarry. 

Weak,  sinful  folk,  that  God,  with  pitying  eye. 

In  mercy  would  his  mercy  multiply 

On  us,  for  reverence  of  his  Mother  Mary  ! " 


II. 


THE  CUCKOO  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

I. 
The  God  of  Love,  —  ah  henedicite  ! 
How  mighty  and  how  great  a  Lord  is  he  ! 
For  he  of  low  hearts  can  make  high,  of  hijih 
He  can  make  low,  and  unto  death  bring  nigh  ; 
And  hard  hearts  he  can  make  them  kind  and  free. 

VOL.  V.  7 


98  SELECTIONS    FROM    CHAUCER. 

II. 

Within  a  little  time,  as  hath  been  found, 
He  can  make  sick  folk  whole  and  fresh  and  sound: 
Them  who  are  whole  in  body  and  in  mind, 
He  can  make  sick,  —  bind  can  he  and  uiilnnd 
All  that  he  will  have  bound,  or  have  unbound. 

III. 
To  tell  his  might  my  wit  may  not  suffice ; 
Foolish  men  he  can  make  them  out  of  wise ;  — 
For  he  may  do  all  that  he  will  devise  ; 
Loose  livers  he  can  make  abate  their  vice, 
And  proud  hearts  can  make  tremble  in  a  trice. 

IV. 

In  brief,  the  whole  of  what  he  will,  he  may  ; 
Against  him  dare  not  any  wight  say  nay  ; 
To  humble  or  afflict  whome'er  he  will. 
To  gladden  or  to  grieve,  he  hath  like  skill  ; 
But  most  his  might  he  sheds  on  the  eve  of  May. 

V. 

For  every  true  heart,  gentle  heart  and  free, 

Tliat  witli  him  is,  or  thinUetli  so  to  be, 

Now  against  May  shall  have    some    stirring,  — 

whether 
To  joy,  or  be  it  to  some  mourning  ;  never 
At  other  time,  methinks,  in  like  degree. 

VI. 

For  now  when  they  may  liear  the  small  birds'  song, 
And  see  the  budding  leaves  the  branches  throng. 


THE    CUCKOO    AXD    THE   NIGHTINGALE.       90 

Tlii>  unto  their  remembrance  doth  bring 
All  kinds  of  pleasure  mixed  with  sorrowing  ; 
And  lonoins:  of  sweet  thoughts  that  ever  long. 

VII. 

And  of  that  longing  heaviness  doth  come, 
Whence  oft  great  sickness  grows  of  heart  and  home; 
Sick  are  they  all  for  lack  of  their  desire ; 
And  thus  in  Maj'  their  hearts  are  set  on  fire, 
So  that  they  bui-n  forth  in  great  martyrdom. 

VIII. 

In  sooth,  I  speak  from  feeling,  what  though  now 
Old  am  I,  and  to  genial  pleasure  slow  ; 
Yet  have  I  felt  of  sickness  through  the  May, 
Both  hot  and  cold,  and  heart-aches  every  day,  — 
How  hard,  alas !  to  bear,  I  only  know. 

IX. 

Such  shaking  doth  the  fever  in  me  keep 

Through  all  this  May,  that  I  have  little  sleep; 

And  also  't  is  not  likely  unto  me, 

That  any  living  heart  should  sleepy  be 

In  which  Love's  dart  its  fiery  point  doth  steep. 


But  tossing  lately  on  a  sleepless  bed, 
I  of  a  token  thought  which  Lovers  heed  ; 
How  among  them  it  was  a  common  tale. 
That  it  was  good  to  hear  the  Nightingale 
Ere  the  vile  Cuckoo's  note  be  uttered. 


100  SELECnOXS    FROM    CHALCi:U. 


XI. 


Ami  then  I  thought  anon,  as  it  was  day, 
I  gladly  would  go  somewhere  to  essay 
If  I  perchance  a  Nightingale  might  hear ; 
For  yet  had  I  heard  none,  of  all  that  year, 
And  it  was  then  the  third  night  of  tlie  May. 


XII. 


And  soon  as  I  a  glimpse  of  day  espied, 

No  longer  would  I  in  my  bed  abide, 

But  straightway  to  a  wood  that  was  hard  by 

Forth  did  I  go,  alone  and  fearlessly, 

And  held  the  pathway  down  by  a  brook-side ; 


xin. 


Till  to  a  lawn  I  came,  all  white  and  green, 

I  in  so  fair  a  one  had  never  been. 

The  ground  was  green,  with  daisy  powdered  over ; 

Tall  were  the  flowers,  the  grove  a  lofty  cover. 

All  green  and  white ;  and  nothing  else  was  seen. 

XIV. 

There  sat  I  down  among  the  fair,  fresh  flowers. 
And  saw  the  birds  come  tripping  fi-om  their  bowers. 
Where  they  had  rested  them  all  night ;  and  they 
WIio  were  so  joyful  at  the  light  of  day, 
Began  to  honor  May  with  all  their  powers. 

XV. 

U'cll  did  they  know  that  service  all  by  rote, 
And  lliere  was  many  and  many  m  lovely  note. 


THE    CUCKOO    AND  THE    JSIG  HTINCi  ALIC.    101 

Some,  singing  loud,  as  if  tliey  had  complained ; 
Some  witli  their  notes  another  manner  feigned  ; 
Aad  some  did  sing  all  out  with  the  full  throat. 

XVI. 

They  pruned   themselves,  and   made  themselvea 

right  gay, 
Dancing  and  leaping  light  upon  the  spray  ; 
And  ever  two  and  two  togethei-  were, 
The  same  as  they  had  chosen  for  the  year, 
Upon  Saint  Valentine's  returning  day. 

XVII. 

Meanwhile  the  stream,  whose  bank  I  sat  upon, 
Was  making  such  a  noise  as  it  ran  on 
Accordant  to  the  sweet  Birds'  harmony ; 
Methought  that  it  was  the  best  melody 
Which  ever  to  man's  ear  a  passage  won. 

XVIII. 

And  for  delight,  but  how  I  never  wot, 
I  in  a  slumber  and  a  swoon  was  caught. 
Not  all  asleep  and  yet  not  waking  wholly  ; 
And  as  I  lay,  the  Cuckoo,  bird  unholy. 
Broke  silence,  or  I  heard  him  in  my  thought. 

XIX. 

And  that  was  right  upon  a  tree  fast  by, 

And  who  was  then  ill  satisfied  but  I  ? 

Now,  God,  quoth  I,  that  died  upon  the  rood. 

From  thee  and  thy  base  throat  keep  all  tiiat's  good, 

^ull  iittle  joy  have  I  now  of  thy  cry. 


102  SELECTIONS    FROM    CHAUCKR. 


XX. 


And,  as  I  with  the  Cuckoo  thus  'gan  chide, 
In  the  next  bush  that  was  me  fast  beside, 
I  heard  the  lusty  Nightingale  so  sing, 
That  her  clear  voice  made  a  loud  rioting, 
Echoing  through  all  the  greenwood  wide. 

XXI. 

Ah  !  good  sweet  Nightingale  !  for  my  heart's  cheer 
Hence  hast  thou  stayed  a  little  while  too  long; 
For  we  have  had  the  sorry  Cuckoo  here, 
And  she  hath  been  before  thee  witli  her  song; 
Evil  light  on  her !  she  hath  done  me  wrong. 

• 

XXII. 

But  hear  you  now  a  wondrous  thing,  I  pray ; 
As  long  as  in  that  swooning-fit  I  lay, 
Methought  I  wist  right  well  what  these  birds  meant, 
And  had  good  knowing  both  of  their  intent. 
And  of  their  speech,  and  all  that  they  would  say. 

xxm. 

The  Nightingale  thus  in  my  hearing  spake:  — 
Good  Cuckoo,  seek  some  other  bush  or  brake. 
And,  prithee,  let  us  that  can  sing  dwell  here  ; 
For  every  wight  eschews  thy  song  to  hear, 
Such  uncouth  singing  verily  dost  thou  make. 

XXIV. 

Wiiat !  quoth  she  then,  wliat  is't  that  ails  thee  now' 
It  seems  to  me  I  sing  as  well  as  tliou  ; 


THE    CUCKOO    AND    THE  NIGHTINGALE.    J  03 

For  mine  's  a  song  tliat  is  both  true  and  plain, — 

Aithough  I  cannot  quaver  so  in  vain 

As  thou  dost  in  thy  throat,  I  wot  not  how. 

XXV. 

All  men  may  understanding  have  of  me, 
But,  Nightingale,  so  may  they  not  of  thee ; 
For  thou  hast  many  a  foolish  and  quaint  cry :  — 
Thou  sayst  Osee,  Osee,  then  how  may  I 
Have  knowledge,  I  thee  pray,  what  this  may  be  ? 

XXVI. 

Ah,  fool !  quoth  she,  wist  thou  not  what  it  is  ? 
Oft  as  I  say  Osee,  Osee,  I  wis. 
Then  mean  I,  that  I  should  be  wonderous  fain 
That  shamefully  they  one  and  all  were  slain, 
Whoever  against  Love  mean  aught  amiss. 

XX  vn. 

And  also  would  I  that  they  all  were  dead. 
Who  do  not  think  in  love  their  life  to  lead ; 
For  who  is  loth  the  God  of  Love  to  obey 
Is  only  fit  to  die,  I  dare  well  say, 
Arid  for  that  cause  Osee  I  cry  ;  take  heed  ! 

XXVIII. 

Ay,  quoth  the  Cuckoo,  that  is  a  quaint  law, 
That  all  must  love  or  die  ;  but  I  withdraw, 
And  take  my  leave  of  all  such  company. 
For  my  intent  it  neither  is  to  die, 
^ov  ever  while  I  live,  Love's  yoke  to  draw. 


104  SFXECTIONS    FROM    CITAUCEU. 


XXIX. 


Fur  lovers,  of  all  folk  that  be  alive, 
Tlie  most  disquiet  have,  and  least  do  thrive  ; 
Most  feeling  have  of  sorrow,  woe,  and  care, 
And  the  lenst  welfare  coraeth  to  their  share  ; 
What  need  is  there  against  the  truth  to  strive  ? 


XXX 


What !  quoth  she,  thou  art  all  out  of  thy  mind, 
That  in  thy  churlishness  a  cause  canst  find 
To  speak  of  Love's  true  Servants  in  this  mood ; 
For  in  this  world  no  service  is  so  good 
To  every  wight  that  gentle  is  of  kind. 


XXXI. 


For  thereof  comes  all  goodness  and  all  worth  ; 
All  gentiless  and  honor  thence  come  forth  ; 
Thence  worship  comes,  content,  and  true  lieart's 

pleasure, 
And  full-assured  trust,  joy  without  measure. 
And  jollity,  fresh  cheerfulness,  jiiid  mirth  : 

XXXII. 

And  bounty,  lowliness,  and  courtesy, 
And  seemliness,  and  faithful  company. 
And  dread  of  shame  that  will  not  do  amiss ; 
For  he  that  faithfully  Love's  servant  is, 
Rather  than  be  disgraced,  would  chuse  to  din. 

XXXIII 

And  that  the  very  truth  it  is  which  T 

Now  say,  —  in  such  belief  T  '11  livi-  and  dir>.  '■ 


THE    COOKOO    AND    THE  NIGnTINGALE.    H'5 

And,  Cuckoo,  do  thou  so,  by  my  advice. 
Then,  quoth  she,  let  me  never  hope  for  bliss. 
If  with  that  counsel  I  do  e'er  comply. 

XXXIV. 

Good  ISightingale  !  thou  speakest  wondrous  fair, 
Yet,  for  all  that,  the  truth  is  found  elsewhere ; 
For  Love  in  young  folk  is  but  rage,  I  wis, 
And  Love  in  old  folk  a  great  dotage  is  ; 
Who  most  it  useth,  him  't  will  most  impaii*. 

XXXV. 

For  thereof  come  all  contraries  to  gladness  ; 
Thence  sickness  comes,  and  overwhelming  sadness, 
Mistrust  and  jealousy,  despite,  debate, 
Dishonor,  shame,  envy  importunate. 
Pride,  anger,  mischief,  poverty,  and  madness. 

xxxvi. 

Loving  is  aye  an  office  of  despair, 

And  one  thing  is  therein  which  is  not  fair ; 

For  whoso  gets  of  love  a  little  bliss. 

Unless  it  always  stay  with  him,  I  wis 

He  may  full  soon  go  with  an  old  man's  hair. 

xxxvu. 

And  therefore,  Nightingale  !  do  thou  keep  nigh- 
For  trust  me  well,  in  spite  of  thy  quaint  cry. 
If  long  time  from  thy  mate  thou  be,  or  far, 
Thou  'It  be  as  others  that  forsaken  are  : 
Then  shalt  thou  raise  a  clamor  a^  do  I. 


106  SELECTIONS    FliOM    CHAUCER. 


XXXVIII. 


Fic,  quoth  she,  on  thy  name,  Bird  ill  beseen  I 
The  God  of  Love  afflict  thee  with  all  teen. 
For  thou  art  worse  than  mad  a  thousand-fold; 
For  many  a  one  hath  virtues  manifold, 
\V"ho  had  been  naught,  if  Love  had  never  been 

xxxtx. 

For  evermore  his  servants  Love  amendeth, 

And  he  from  every  blemish  them  defendeth  ; 

And  maketh  them  to  burn,  as  in  a  fire. 

In  loyalty,  and  worshipful  desire, 

And,  when  it  likes  him,  joy  enough  them  sendeth 

XL. 

Thou  Nightingale  !  the  Cuckoo  said,  be  still, 
For  Love  no  reason  hath  but  his  own  will ;  — 
For  to  th'  untrue  he  oft  gives  ease  and  joy  ; 
True  lovers  doth  so  bitterly  annoy. 
He  lets  them  perish  through  that  grievous  ill. 

XLI. 

With  sufh  a  master  would  I  never  be, ;  * 

For  he,  in  sooth,  is  blind,  and  may  not  see. 

And  knows  not  when  he  hurts  and  when  he  heals; 

Within  this  court  full  seldom  Truth  avails, 

Sc  diverse  in  his  wilfulness  is  he. 


*  From  a  miinuscript  in  the  Bodleian   jt  are  also  stnnzsis  44 
uiil  45,  wbicli  are  uecessnry  to  complete  the  sense. 


THE    CUCKOO    AND    TUE  NIGHTINGALE.     107 


XLII. 


Then  of  the  Nightingale  did  I  take  note 

How  from  her  inmost  lieart  a  sigh  she  brought, 

And  said,  Alas  that  ever  I  was  born  ! 

Not  one  word  have  I  now,  I  am  so  forlorn  ;  — 

And  with  that  word,  she  into  tears  burst  out. 

XLIli. 

Alas,  alas  !  my  very  heart  will  break, 

Quoth  she,  to  hear  this  churlish  bird  thus  speak 

Of  Love,  and  of  his  holy  services  ; 

Now,  God  of  Love  !  thou  help  me  in  some  wise. 

That  vengeance  on  this  Cuckoo  I  may  wreak. 

XLIV. 

And  so  methought  I  started  up  anon, 
And  to  the  brook  I  ran  and  got  a  stone. 
Which  at  the  Cuckoo  hardily  I  cast, 
And  he  for  dread  did  fly  away  full  fast ; 
And  glad,  in  sooth,  was  I  when  he  was  gone. 


XLV. 

And  as  he  flew,  the  Cuckoo,  ever  and  aye, 

Kept  crying,  "  Farewell !  —  farewell,  Popinjay  !" 

As  if  in  scornful  mockery  of  me  ; 

And  on  I  hunted  him  from  tree  to  tree. 

Till  he  was  far,  all  out  of  sight,  away. 

XLVI. 

Then  straightway  came  the  Nightingale  to  me, 
4nd  said,  Forsooth,  my  friend,  do  I  thank  thee, 


ins  SELECTIONS    niOM    CnAUCER. 

riiat  thou  wert  near  to  rescue  me  ;  and  now 
Unto  the  God  of  Love  I  make  a  vow, 
That  all  this  May  I  will  thy  songstress  be. 

XLVII. 

Well  satisfied,  I  thanked  her,  and  she  said, 

By  this  mishap  no  longer  be  dismayed, 

Though  thou  the  Cuckoo  heard,  ere  thou  heard'stme 

Yet  if  I  live  it  shall  amended  be, 

When  next  May  comes,  if  I  am  not  afraid. 

xLvin. 

And  one  thing  will  I  counsel  thee  also : 

The  Cuckoo  trust  not  thou,  nor  his  Love's  saw ; 

All  that  he  said  is  an  outrageous  lie. 

Nay,  nothing  shall  me  bring  thereto,  quoth  I, 

For  Love,  and  it  hath  done  me  mighty  woe. 

XLIX. 

Yea,  hath  it?  use,  quoth  she,  this  medicine; 
Tills  May-time,  every  day  before  thou  dine, 
Go  look  on  the  fresh  daisy  ;  then  say  I, 
Although  for  pain  thou  mayst  be  like  to  die, 
Thou  wilt  be  eased,  and  less  wilt  droop  and  pine. 

L. 

And  mind  always  that  thou  l)e  good  and  true, 
And  I  will  sing  one  song,  of  many  new. 
Fur  love  of  thee,  as  loud  as  I  may  (rry ; 
And  then  did  she  bt^gin  this  song  full  high, 
^  Beshrew  all  tlicni  that  are  in  love  untrue." 


THE    CUCKOO    AND    THE  NIGHTINGALE.    100 

And  soon  as  she  had  sung  it  to  an  end, 

Now  farewell,  quoth  she,  for  I  hence  must  wend  ; 

And,  God  of  Love,  that  can  right  well  and  may, 

Send  unto  thee  as  mickle  joy  this  day, 

As  ever  he  to  Lover  yet  did  send. 

LII. 

Thus  takes  the  Nightingale  her  leave  of  me  ; 
I  pray  to  God  with  her  always  to  be, 
And  joy  of  love  to  send  her  evermore  ; 
And  shield  us  from  the  Cuckoo  and  her  lore, 
For  there  is  not  so  false  a  bird  as  she. 


LIII. 


Forth  then  she  flew,  the  gentle  Nightingale, 
To  all  the  Birds  that  lodged  within  that  dale. 
And  gatliered  each  and  all  into  one  place, 
And  them  besought  to  hear  her  doleful  case  ; 
And  thus  it  was  that  she  began  her  tale. 


The  Cuckoo,  —  't  is  not  well  that  I  should  hide 
How  she  and  I  did  each  the  other  chide, 
And  without  ceasing,  since  it  was  daylight ; 
And  now  I  pray  you  all  to  do  me  right 
Of  that  false  Bird,  whom  Love  cannot  abide. 

LV. 

Then  spake  one  Bird,  and  full  assent  all  gave  . 
This  matter  asketh  counsel  good  as  grave, 


no  SKLICCTIONS    FKOM    CHAlCKi;. 

For  birds  we  are,  —  all  here  together  brought ; 
A.ncl,  in  good  sooth,  the  Cuckoo  here  is  not ; 
And  therefore  we  a  Pai'liament  will  have. 

LVI. 

And  thereat  shall  the  Eagle  be  our  Lord, 
And  other  Peers  whose  names  are  on  record  ; 
A  summons  to  the  Cuckoo  shall  be  sent, 
And  judgment  there  be  given  ;  or,  that  intent 
Failing,  we  finally  shall  make  accord. 

LVII. 

And  all  this  shall  be  done,  without  a  nay. 
The  morrow  after  Saint  Valentine's  dav. 
Under  a  majjle  that  is  well  beseen, 
Before  the  chamber-window  of  the  Queen, 
At  Woodstock,  on  the  meadow  green  and  gay. 

LVIII. 

Slie  thankeil  them  ;  and  then  her  leave  she  took. 

And  flew  into  a  hawthorn  by  tiiat  brook  ; 

And  thei'e  she  sat  and  sung,  upon  that  tree, 

"  For  term  of  life  Love  shall  have  hold  of  rae,"  — > 

So  loudly,  that  I  with  that  song  awoke. 


Unlearned  Book  and  rude,  as  well  I  know, 
For  bt-auty  thou  hast  none,  nor  eloquence, 
Who  did  on  thee  the  hardiness  bestow 
To  appear  before  my  Lady  ?  but  a  sense 
Then  surely  iiast  of  iier  benevolence, 


THE    CUCKOO    AND    THE  XIGHTINUALE.     Ill 

Whereof  her  hourly  bearing  proof  doth  give  ; 
For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

Alas,  poor  Book  !  for  thy  unworthiness, 
To  show  to  her  some  pleasant  meaningss  writ 
In  winning  words,  since  through  her  gentiless. 
Thee  she  accepts  as  for  her  service  fit ! 
Oh  !  it  repents  me  I  have  neither  wit 
Nor  leisure  unto  thee  more  worth  to  give ; 
For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

Beseech  her  meekly  with  all  lowliness. 
Though  I  be  far  from  her  I  reverence, 
To  think  upon  ray  truth  and  stedfastness, 
And  to  abridge  my  sorrow's  violence. 
Caused  by  the  wish,  as  knows  your  sapience, 
She  of  her  liking  proof  to  me  would  give  ; 
For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

l'envoy. 

Pleasure's  Aurora,  Day  of  gladsomeness  ! 
Luna  by  night,  with  heavenly  iniiuence 
Illumined  !  root  of  beauty  and  goodnesse, 
Write,  and  allay,  by  your  beneficence, 
My  sighs  breathed  forth  in  silence,  —  comfort  give ! 
Since  of  all  good  you  are  the  best  alivn. 

KXPL.ICTl-. 


112  SELECTIONS    FROM    CIlAtJCER. 

III. 
TROILUS  AND    CRESIDA. 

NeXi'  morning  Troilus  began  to  clear 

His  eyes  from  sleep,  at  the  tirst  break  of  day. 

And  unto  Pandarus,  his  own  Brother  dear, 

For  love  of  God,  full  piteously  did  ^ay. 

We  must  the  Palace  see  of  Cresida  ; 

For  since  we  yet  may  have  no  other  feast, 

Let  us  behold  her  Palace  at  the  least ! 

And  therewithal  to  cover  bis  intent, 

A  cause  he  found  into  the  Town  to  go, 

And  they  right  forth  to  Cresid's  Palace  went ; 

But,  Lord,  this  simple  Troilus  was  woe. 

Him  thought  his  sorrowful  heart  would  break  in  two. 

For  when  he  saw  her  doors  fiiit  bolted  all, 

Wellnigh  for  sorrow  down  he  'gan  to  fall. 

Therewith  when  this  true  Lover  'gan  behold 
How  simt  was  every  window  of  the  place, 
Like  frost  he  thought  his  heart  was  icy  cold ; 
For  wliich,  with  ciiaiiged,  pale,  and  dea»dy  face, 
Without  word  uttered,  fortii  he  'gan  to  naa;  ; 
And  on  iiis  purpose  bent  so  fast  to  ride. 
That  no  wighl  his  continuance  espied. 

Then  said  he  thus  :  0  Palace  desolate  I 
0  house  of  houses,  once  so  richly  dight ! 


TROILUS    AND    CRESIDA.  113 

O  Palace  empty  and  disconsolate  ! 
Thou  lamp  of  which  extinguished  is  the  light ! 
O  Palace  whilom  day  that  no\v  art  night ! 
Thou  ought'st  to  fall  and  I  to  die ;  since  she 
Is  gone  who  held  us  both  in  sovereignty. 

O  of  all  houses  once  the  crowned  boast! 

Palace  illumined  with  the  sun  of  bliss ! 

O  ring  of  which  the  ruby  now  is  lost ! 

O  cause  of  woe,  that  cause  has  been  of  bliss  ! 

Yet,  since  I  may  no  better,  would  I  kiss 

Thy  cold  doors ;   but  I  dare  not  for  this  rout ; 

Farewell,  thou  shrine  of  which  the  Saint  is  out ! 

Therewith  he  cast  on  Pandarus  an  eye, 
With  changed  face,  and  piteous  to  behold ; 
And  when  he  might  his  time  aright  espy, 
Aye  as  he  rode,  to  Pandarus  he  told 
Both  his  new  sorrow  and  his  joys  of  old, 
So  piteously,  and  with  so  dead  a  hue, 
That  every  wight  might  on  his  sorrow  rue. 

Forth  from  the  spot  he  rideth  up  and  down, 
And  everything  to  his  remembenuice 
Came,  as  he  rode  by  places  of  the  town 
Where  he  had  felt  such  perfect  pleasure  once. 
Lo,  yonder  saw  I  mine  own  Lady  dance. 
And  in  that  Temple  she  with  her  bright  eyes, 
My  Lady  dear,  first  bound  me  captive-wise. 

VOL    v.  8 


114  SELECTIOXS    FROM   CHAUCER. 

AikI  yonder  with  joy-smitten  heart  have  I 
Heard  my  own  Cresid's  hiugh ;  and  once  at  play 
I  yonder  saw  her  eke  full  blissfully ; 
And  yonder  once  she  unto  me  'gan  say, 
Now,  my  sweet  Troilus,  love  me  well,  I  pray ! 
And  there  so  graciously  did  me  behold, 
That  hers  unto  the  death  my  heart  I  hold. 

And  at  the  corner  of  that  selfsame  house 
Heard  I  my  most  beloved  Lady  dear, 
So  womanly,  with  voice  melodious 
Singing  so  well,  so  goodly,  and  so  clear, 
That  in  my  soul  methinks  I  yet  do  hear 
The  blissful  sound;  and  in  that  very  place 
My  Lady  first  me  took  unto  her  grace. 

O  blissful  God  of  Love  !  then  thus  he  cried, 
When  I  the  process  have  in  memory, 
How  thou  hast  wearied  me  on  every  side, 
Men  thenee  a  book  might  make,  a  history ; 
"What  need  to  seek  a  conquest  over  me, 
Since  I  am  wholly  at  thy  will .''  what  joy 
Hast  thou  thy  own  liege  subjects  to  destroy? 

Dread  Lord!  so  fearful  when  provoked,  thine  ire 
A\\'ll  ]i:i>L  ihou  wreaked  on  me  by  pain  and  grief; 
Now  mercy.  Lord  !  thou  know'st  well  I  desire 
Thy  grace  above  all  pleasures  first  and  chief; 
And  live  and  die  I  will  in  thy  belief; 


TROILUS    AND    CRESIDA.  ilo 

For  which  I  ask  for  guerdon  but  one  boon, 
That  Cresida  again  thou  send  me  soon. 

CQnstrain  her  heart  as  quickly  to  return, 

As  thou  dost  mine  with  longing  her  to  see. 

Then  know  I  well  that  she  w'ould  not  sojourn. 

Now,  blissful  Lord,  so  cruel  do  not  be 

Unto  the  blood  of  Troy,  I  pra}'  to  thee, 

As  Juno  was  unto  the  Theban  blood. 

From  whence  to  Thebes  came  griefs  in  multitude. 


a' 


And  after  this  he  to  the  gate  did  oro 

Whence  Cresid  rode,  as  if  in  haste  she  was ; 

And  up  and  down  there  went,  and  to  and  fro, 

And  to  himself  full  oft  he  said,  Alas ! 

From  hence  my  hope,  and  solace  forth  did  pass. 

0  would  the  blissful  God  now  for  his  joy, 

1  might  her  see  again  coming  to  Troy ! 

And  up  to  yonder  hill  was  I  her  guide ; 
Alas  !  and  there  I  took  of  her  my  leave  ; 
Yonder  I  saw  her  to  her  Father  ride, 
For  very  grief  of  which  ray  heart  shall  cleave  ;- 
Aud  hitlier  home  I  came  when  it  was  eve; 
And  here  I  dwell,  an  outcast  from  all  joy, 
And  shall,  unless  I  see  her  soon  in  Troy. 

And  of  himself  did  he  imagine  oft, 

Tliat  he  was  blighted,  pale,  and  waxen  less 


1  1  6  SELECTIONS    FROM    CHAUCER. 

Than  he  was  wont;  and  that  in  whispers  soft 
Men  said,  What  may  it  be,  can  no  one  guess 
Why  Troihis  hath  all  this  heaviness  ? 
All  which  he  of  himself  conceited  wholly 
Out  of  his  weakness  and  his  melancholy. 

Another  time  lie  took  into  his  head, 

Tliat  every  wight,  who  in  the  way  passed  by, 

Had  of  him  ruth,  and  fancied  that  they  said, 

I  am  right  sorry  Troihis  will  die : 

And  thus  a  day  or  two  drove  wearily ; 

As  ye  have  heard ;  such  life  'gan  he  to  lead 

As  one  that  standeth  betwixt  hope  and  dread. 

For  which  it  pleased  him  in  his  songs  to  show 
The  occasion  of  his  woe,  as  best  he  miglit ; 
And  made  a  fitting  song,  of  words  but  few, 
Somewhat  his  woful  heart  to  make  more  liglit ; 
And  when  he  was  removed  from  all  men's  sight, 
With  a  soft  night  voice,  he  of  his  Lady  dear, 
That  absent  was,  'gan  sing,  as  ye  may  hear :  — 

O  star,  of  which  I  lost  have  all  the  light. 
With  a  sore  heart  well  ought  I  to  bewail. 
That  ever  dark  in  torment,  night  by  night. 
Toward  my  death  with  wind  I  steer  and  sail ; 
For  which  upon  the  tenth  night  if  thou  fail 
"Wiih  ihy  bright  beams  to  guide  iik^  hut  one  hour, 
]\Iy  ship  and  me  Charybdis  will  devour. 


TROILUS    AND    CRESIDA.  117 

As  soon  as  he  this  song  had  thus  sung  through, 
He  fell  again  into  his  sorrows  old  ; 
And  every  night,  as  was  his  wont  to  do, 
Troilus  stood  the  bright  moon  to  behold  ; 
And  all  his  trouble  to  the  moon  he  told, 
And  said :  I  wis,  when  thou  art  horned  anew, 
I  shall  be  glad  if  all  the  world  be  true. 

Thy  horns  were  old  as  now  upon  that  morrow, 
When  hence  did  journey  my  bright  Lady  dear, 
That  cause  is  of  my  torment  and  my  sorrow ; 
For  which,  O  gentle  Luna,  bright  and  clear, 
For  love  of  God,  run  fast  above  thy  sphere ; 
For  when  th}^  horns  begin  once  more  to  spring. 
Then  shall  she  come,  that  with  her  bliss  may  bring. 

The  day  is  more,  and  longer  every  night, 

Than  they  were  wont  to  be,  —  for  he  thought  so  . 

And  that  the  sun  did  take  his  course  not  right, 

By  longer  way  than  he  was  wont  to  go ; 

And  said,  I  am  in  constant  dread,  I  trow, 

Tliat  Phaeton  his  son  is  yet  alive, 

Hi:5  too  fond  father's  car  amiss  to  drive. 

Upon  the  walls  fast  also  would  he  walk, 
To  the  end  that  he  the  Grecian  host  might  see ; 
And  ever  thus  he  to  himself  would  talk   — 
Lo  !  yonder  is  my  own  bright  Lady  free  ; 
Or  yonder  is  it  that  the  tents  must  be  ; 


118  TROILUS    AND    CRESIDA. 

And  thence  does  corae  this  air  which  is  so  sweet, 
That  in  my  soul  I  feel  the  joy  of  it. 

And  certainly  this  wind,  that  more  and  more 
By  moments  thus  increaseth  in  my  face, 
Is  of  my  Lady's  sighs  heavy  and  sore ; 
I  prove  it  thus  :  for  in  no  other  space 
Of  all  this  town,  save  only  in  this  place, 
Feel  I  a  wind,  that  soundeth  so  like  pain  ; 
It  saith,  Alas  !  why  severed  are  we  twain  ? 

A  weary  while  in  pain  he  tosseth  thus, 

Till  fully  passed  and  gone  was  the  ninth  night  ; 

And  ever  at  his  side  stood  Paudarus, 

Who  busily  made  use  of  all  his  might 

To  comfort  him,  and  make  his  heart  more  liglit  ; 

Giving  him  always  hope,  that  she  the  morrow 

Of  the  tenth  day  will  come,  and  end  his  sorrow. 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD 
OF  OLD  AGE. 


THE  OLD  CUMBERLAND  BEGGAR. 

The  class  of  Beggars,  to  which  the  old  man  here  described 
belongs,  will  probablj'  soon  be  extinct.  It  consisted  of  poor, 
and,  mostly,  old  and  infirm  persons,  who  confined  themselves 
to  a  stated  round  in  their  neighborhood,  and  had  certain  fixed 
days  on  which,  at  different  houses,  they  regularly  received 
alms,  sometimes  in  money,  but  mostly  in  provisions. 

I  SAW  an  aged  Beggar  in  my  walk ; 

And  he  was  seated,  by  the  highway-side, 

On  a  low  structure  of  rude  masonry 

Built  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  hill,  that  they 

Who  lead  their  horses  down  the  steep,  rough  road 

May  thence  remount  at  ease.     The  aged  man 

Had  placed  his  staff'  across  a  broad,  smooth  stone 

That  overlays  the  pile  ;  and,  from  a  bag 

All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dames, 

He  drew  his  scraps  and  fragments,  one  by  one  ; 

And  scanned  them  with  a  fixed  and  sex'ious  look 

Of  idle  computation.     In  the  sun. 


120    THE  OLD  CUMBEULAND  BEGGAR. 

Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile, 
Surrounded  by  those  wild,  unpeopled  hills, 
He  sat,  and  ate  his  food  in  solitude  : 
And  ever,  scattered  from  his  palsied  hand, 
That,  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste, 
AVas  biiffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 
Fell  on  the  ground  ;  and  the  small  mountain  birds. 
Not  venturing  yet  to  peck  their  destined  meal, 
Approached  within  the  length  of  half  his  statf. 

Ilim  from  my  childhood  have  I  known  ;  and  then 
He  was  so  old,  he  seems  not  older  now ; 
He  travels  on,  a  solitary  man. 
So  helpless  in  appearance,  that  for  him 
The  sauntering  horseman  throws  not  with  a  slack 
And  careless  hand  his  alms  upon  the  ground, 
But  stops,  —  that  he  may  safely  lodge  the  coin 
Within  the  old  man's  hat ;  nor  quits  him  so. 
But  still,  when  he  has  given  his  horse  the  rein. 
Watches  the  aged  Bejrsfir  with  a  look 
Sidelong,  and  half-reverted.     She  who  t(Mids 
The  toll-gate,  when  in  summer  at  her  door 
She  turns  her  wheel,  if  on  the  road  she  sees 
The  aged  Beggar  coming,  quits  her  work, 
And  lifts  the  latch  for  him  that  he  may  pass. 
The  post-boy,  when  his  rattling  wheels  o'ertake 
The  aged  Beggar  in  the  woody  lane. 
Shouts  to  him  from  behind  ;  and  if,  thus  warned, 
Tlie  old  man  does  not  change  his  course,  the  boy 
Turns  with  less  noisy  wheels  to  tlie  road-side, 


THE  OLD  CUMBERLAND  BEGGAR.    121 

And  passes  gently  by,  without  a  curse 
Upon  his  lips,  oi'  angei'  at  his  heart. 

He  travels  on,  a  solitary  man  ; 
His  age  has  no  companion.     On  the  ground 
His  eyes  are  turned,  and,  as  he  moves  along, 
They  move  along  the  ground  ;  and,  evermore, 
Instead  of  common  and  habitual  sight 
Of  fields  with  rural  works,  of  hill  and  dale. 
And  the  blue  sky,  one  little  span  of  earth 
Is  all  his  prospect.     Thus,  from  day  to  day, 
Bow-bent,  his  eyes  forever  on  the  ground, 
He  plies  his  weary  journey  ;  seeing  still, 
And  seldom  knowing  that  he  sees,  some  straw. 
Some  scattered  leaf,  or  marks  which,  in  one  track, 
The  nails  of  cart  or  chariot-wheel  have  left 
Impressed  on  the  white  road,  —  in  the  same  line. 
At  distance  still  the  same.     Poor  Traveller  ! 
His  staff  trails  with  him  :  scarcely  do  his  feet 
Disturb  the  summer  dust ;  he  is  so  still 
In  look  and  motion,  that  the  cottage  curs, 
Ere  he  has  passed  the  door,  will  turn  away. 
Weary  of  barking  at  him.     Boys  and  girls, 
The  vacant  and  the  busy,  maids  and  youths, 
And  urchins  newly  breeched,  —  all  pass  him  by  : 
Him  even  the  slow-paced  wagon  leaves  behind. 

But  deem  not  this  man  useless.     Statesmen  !  ye 
Who  are  so  restless  in  your  w^isdom,  ye 
Who  have  a  broom  still  ready  in  your  hands 


12:?  Tin:    OLD    CUMBERLAND    BEGGAR. 

To  rid  the  world  of  nuisances  ;  ye  proud, 
Heart-swoln,  while  in  your  pride  ye  contemplate 
Your  talents,  power,  or  wisdom,  deem  him  not 
A  burden  of  the  earth  !    'T  is  nature's  law 
That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 
Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute, 
Tlie  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good,  —  a  spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 
A  life  and  soul,  to  every  mood  of  being 
Inseparably  linked.     Then  be  assured 
That  least  of  all  can  aught  —  that  ever  owned 
Tlie  heaven-regarding  eye  and  front  sublime 
AViiich  man  is  born  to  —  sink,  howe'er  depressed, 
So  low  as  to  be  scorned  without  a  sin  ; 
Witliout  offence  to  God,  cast  out  of  view  ; 
Like  the  dried  remnants  of  a  garden-flower 
Whose  seeds  are  shed,  or  as  an  implement 
Worn  out  and  worthless.    While  from  door  to  door 
This  old  man  creeps,  the  villagers  in  him 
Beiiold  a  record  which  together  binds 
Past  deeds  and  offices  of  chai-ity. 
Else  unremembered,  and  so  keeps  alive 
The  kindly  mood  in  hearts  which  lapse  of  years, 
And  that  half- wisdom  half-experience  gives, 
Make  slow  to  feel,  and  by  sure  steps  resign 
To  selfishness  and  cold,  oblivious  cares. 
Among  the  farms  and  solitary  huts, 
Hamlets  and  thinly  scattered  villages, 
Where'er  the  aged  Beggar  takes  his  rounds, 
The  mild  necessity  of  use  compels 


THE  OLD  CUMBERLAND  BEGGAR.    123 

To  acts  of  love ;  and  habit  does  the  work 
Of  reason  ;  yet  prepares  that  after-joy 
Which  reason  cherishes.     And  thus  the  soul, 
By  that  sweet  taste  of  pleasure  unpursued, 
Doth  find  herself  insensibly  disposed 
To  virtue  and  true  goodness. 

Some  there  are, 
Bv  their  good  works  exalted,  lofty  minds 
And  meditative,  authors  of  delight 
And  happiness,  which  to  the  end  of  time 
Will  live,  and  spread,  and  kindle  :  even  such  minds 
In  childhood,  from  this  solitary  Being, 
Or  from  like  wanderer,  haply  have  received 
(A  thing  more  precious  far  than  all  that  books 
Or  the  solicitudes  of  love  can  do  !) 
That  first  mild  touch  of  sympathy  and  thought, 
In  which  they  found  their  kindred  with  a  world 
Where  want  and  sorrow  were.     The  easy  man 
Who  sits  at  his  own  door,  and,  like  the  pear 
That  overhangs  his  head  from  the  green  wall. 
Feeds  in  the  sunshine ;  the  robust  and  young, 
The  prosperous  and  unthinking,  they  who  live 
Sheltered,  and  flourish  in  a  little  grove 
Of  their  own  kindred  ;  —  all  behold  in  him 
A  silent  monitor,  which  on  their  minds 
Must  needs  impress  a  transitory  thought 
Of  self-congratulation,  to  the  heart 
Of  each  recalling  his  peculiar  boons, 
His  charters  and  exemptions;  and,  perchance, 
TiioLigh  he  to  no  one  give  the  fortitude 


124  THE    OLD    CU.AIBKKLAXD    BEGGAR. 

And  circumspection  needful  to  preserve 
His  present  blessings,  and  to  husband  up 
The  respite  of  the  season,  he  at  least, 
And  't  is  no  vulgar  service,  makes  them  felt. 

Yet  furlher. Many,  I  believe,  there  are, 

Who  live  a  life  of  virtuous  decency, 

Men  wiio  can  hear  the  Decalogue,  and  feel 

No  self-reproach  ;  who  of  the  moral  law 

Established  in  the  land  where  they  abide 

Are  strict  observers  ;  and  not  uenliirent 

In  acts  of  love  to  those  with  whom  they  dwell, 

Their  kindred,  and  the  children  of  I  heir  blood. 

Praise  be  to  such,  and  to  their  slumbers  peace! 

—  But  of  the  poor  man  ask,  the  abject  poor; 
Go,  and  demand  of  him,  if  there  be  here, 

In  this  cold  abstinence  from  evil  deeds, 

And  these  inevitable  charities, 

Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  soul  ? 

No,  —  man  is  dear  to  man  ;  the  poorest  poor 

Lonij  for  some  moments  in  a  weary  life 

When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have  been. 

Themselves,  the  fathers  and  the  dealers-out 

Of  some  small  blessings  ;  have  been  kind  to  such 

As  needed  kindness,  for  this  single  cause. 

That  we  have  all  of  us  one  human  liourt. 

—  Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  Being  known, 
My  neighbor,  when  with  punctual  care,  each  week, 
Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  pressed  herself 
By  lier  own  wants,  she  from  her  store  of  meal 


THE    OLD    CmiBERLAND    BEGGAR.  12.3 

Takes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 
Of  this  old  Mendicant,  and,  from  her  door 
Returning  with  exhilarated  heart, 
Sits  by  her  fire,  and  builds  her  hope  in  heaven. 

Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head ! 
And  while,  in  that  vast  solitude  to  which 
The  tide  of  things  has  borne  him,  he  appears 
To  breathe  and  live  but  for  himself  alone, 
Uublamed,  uninjured,  let  him  bear  about 
The  o-ood  which  the  benignant  law  of  Heaven 
Has  hung  around  him  :  and,  while  life  is  his, 
Still  let  him  prompt  the  unlettered  villagers 
To  tender  offices  and  pensive  thoughts. 
—  Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head ! 
And,  long  as  he  can  wander,  let  him  breathe 
The  freshness  of  the  valleys  ;  let  his  blood 
Struggle  with  frosty  air  and  winter  snows ; 
And  let  the  chartered  wind  that  sweeps  the  heath 
Beat  his  gray  locks  against  his  withered  face. 
Reverence  the  hope  w-hose  vital  anxiousness 
Gives  the  last  human  interest  to  his  heart. 
May  never  House,  misnamed  of  Industry, 
Make  him  a  captive !  — for  that  pent-up  din. 
Those  life-consuming  sounds  that  clog  the  air. 
Be  his  the  natural  silence  of  old  age  ! 
Let  him  be  free  of  mountain  solitudes  ; 
And  have  around  him,  whether  heard  or  not, 
The  pleasant  melody  of  woodland  birds. 
Few  are  his  pleasures :  if  his  eyes  have  now 
Been  doomed  so  long  to  settle  upon  earth, 


IJG         Tllli    KARMPiR    OF    TILSKUUV    VAl.E. 

That  not  without  some  effort  they  behold 
The  countenance  of  the  horizontal  sun, 
Rising  or  setting,  let  the  light  at  least 
Find  a  free  entrance  to  their  languid  orbs. 
And  let  him,  ichere  and  when  he  will,  sit  down 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  on  a  grassy  bank 
Of  highway-side,  and  with  the  little  birds, 
Share  his  chance-gathered  meal ;  and,  finally, 
As  in  the  eye  of  Nature  he  has  lived, 
So  in  the  eye  of  Nature  let  him  die ! 

1798. 


n. 

THE  FAEMER  OF  TILSBURY   VALE. 

'T  IS  not  for  the  unfeeling,  the  falsely  refined. 
The  squeamish  in  taste,  and  the  narrow  of  mind, 
And  the  small  critic  wielding  his  deliciUe  pen, 
That  I  sing  of  old  Adam,  the  pride  of  old  men. 

He  dwells  in  the  centre  of  London's  wide  Town ; 
His  staff  is  a  sceptre,  his  gray  hairs  a  crown; 
And  his  bright  eyes  look  brighter,  set  off  by  the 

streidc 
Of  the  unfaded  rose  that  still  blooms  on  his  cheek. 

Mid  the  dews,  in  the  sunshine  of  morn,  —  'mid 

the  joy 
Of  the  fields,  he  collected  that  bloom,  when  a  boy  ; 


THE    FARMER    OF    TILSBURY    TALE.         127 

rhat  countenance  there  fashioned,  -which,  spite  of 

a  stain 
That  his  Ufe  hath  received,  to  the  last  will  remani. 

A  Farmer  he  was  ;  and  his  house  far  and  near 
"Was  the  boast  of  the  country  for  excellent  chet  r: 
How  oft  have  I  heard  in  sweet  Tilsbury  Vale 
Of  the  silver-riramed  horn  whence  he  dealt  !iis 
mild  ale  ! 

Yet  Adam  was  far  as  the  farthest  from  ruin, 
His  fields  seemed  to  know  what  their  master  was 

doing  ; 
And  turnips,  and  corn-land,  and  meadow,  and  loa. 
All  caught  the  infection,  —  as  generous  as  he. 

Yet  Adam  prized  little  the  feast  and  the  bowl,  — ■ 

The  fields  better  suited  the  ease  of  his  soul : 

He  strayed  through  the  fields  like   an    indolent 

wight,  — 
The  quiet  of  nature  was  Adam's  delight. 

For  Adam  was  simple  in  thought ;  and  the  poor, 
Familiar  with  him,  made  an  inn  of  his  door  : 
He  gave  them  the  best  that  he  had ;  or,  to  say 
What  less  may  mislead  you,  they  took  it  away. 

Thus  thirty  smooth  years  did  he  thrive   on    h.ls 

farm : 
The  Genius  of  Plenty  preserved  him  from  harm 


128         THE    FARMKR    OF    TII.SBURT    VALE. 

At  length,  what  to  most  is  a  season  of  sorrow, 
His  means  are  run  out,  —  he  must  beg,  or  must 
borrow. 

To  the  neighbors  he  went,  —  all  were  free  with 

their  money ; 
For  his  hive  had  so  long  been  replenished  with 

honey. 
That  they  dreamt  not  of  dearth  ;  —  he  continued 

his  rounds, 
Knocked  here,  and  knocked  therp     pounds    still 

adding  to  pounds. 

He  paid  what  he  could  with  his  ill-gotten  pelf, 
And  something,  it  might  be,  reserved  for  himself: 
Then,  (what  is  too  true,)  without  hinting  a  word. 
Turned  his  back  on  the  country,  —  and  off  like  a 
bird. 

You  lift  up  your  eyes !  —  but  I  guess  that  you  frame 
A  judgment  too  harsh  of  the  sin  and  the  shame  ; 
III  him  it  was  scarcel}'  a  business  of  art. 
For  this  he  did  all  in  the  ease  of  his  heart. 

To  London  —  a  sad  emigration  I  ween  — 

With  his  gray  hairs  he  went,  from  the  brook  and 

the  green : 
And  there,  with  small  wealth  but  his  legs  and  his 

hands. 
As  lonely  ho  stood  as  a  crow  on  the  sands. 


THE    FARMER    OF    TILSBURT    VALE.         129 

A.11  trades,  as  need  was,  did  old  Adam  assume,  — 
Served  as  stable-boy,  errand-boy,  porter,  and  groom ; 
But  nature  is  gracious,  necessity  kind, 
And,  in  spite  of  the  shame  that  may  lurk  in  his 
mind, 

He  seems  ten  birthdays  younger,  is  green  and  is 

stout ; 
Twice  as  fast  as  before  does  his  blood  run  about ; 
You  would  say  that  each  hair  of  his  beard  was  alive, 
And  his  fingers  are  busy  as  bees  in  a  hive. 

For  he  's  not  like  an  old  man  that  leisurely  goes 
About  work  that  he  knows,  in  a  track  that  he  knows ; 
But  often  his  mind  is  compelled  to  demur. 
And  you  guess  that  the  more  then  his  body  must 
stir. 

In  the  throng  of  the  town  like  a  stranger  is  he, 
Like  one  whose  own  country  's  far  over  the  sea ; 
And  Nature,  while  through  the  great  city  he  hies, 
Full  ten  times  a  day  takes  his  heart  by  surprise. 

Tliis  gives  him  the  fancy  of  one  that  is  young, 
More  of  soul  in  his  face  than  of  words  on  his  tongue  ; 
Like  a  maiden  of  twenty  he  trembles  and  sighs. 
And  tears  of  fifteen  will  come  into  his  eyes. 

"What's  a  tempest  to  him,  or  the  dry  parching  heats  ? 
Y^-t  he  watches  the  clouds  tlxat  pass  over  the  streets ; 

VOL.    V.  9 


130         THE    FAU.VIEK    OF    TILSBUKIT    VALE. 

Willi  a  look  of  such  earnestness  often  will  stand. 
You  might  think  he  'd  twelve  I'eapers  at  work  in 
the  Strand. 

"Where  proud  Covent  Garden,  in  desolate  hours 
Of  snow  and  hoar-frost,  spreads  her  fruits  and  her 

flowers, 
Old  Adam  will  smile  at  the  pains  that  have  made 
Poor  Winter  look  fine  in  such  strange  masquerade. 

'Mid  coaches  and  chariots,  a  wagon  of  straw, 
Like  a  magnet,  the  heart  of  old  Adam  can  draw  ; 
With  a  thousand  soft  pictures  his  memory  will  teem, 
And  his  hearing  is  touched  with  the  sounds  of  a 
dream. 

Up  the  Haymarket  hill  he  oft  whistles  his  way. 
Thrusts  his  hands  in  a  wagon,  and  smells  at  the  hay; 
He  thinks  of  the  fields  he  so  often  hath  mown, 
And  is  happy  as  if  the  rich  freight  were  his  own. 

But  chiefly  to  Smithfield  he  loves  to  repair,  — 
If  you  pass  by  at  morning,  you '11  raeetwith  him  there. 
The  hi-eath  of  the  cows  you  may  see  him  inhale. 
And  his  heart  all  the  while  is  in  Tilsbury  Vale. 

Now  farewell,  old  Adam  !  when  low  thou  art  laid, 
May  one  blade  of  grass  spring  over  thy  head ; 
And  1  li()i)(!  tliiU.  thy  grave,  whercsoevei'  it  be, 
Will  Jiear  llic  wind  sigh  through  the  leaves  of  a  tree. 

1S03. 


THE    SMALL    CELANDINE.  131 


ni. 


THE   SMALL   CELANDINE. 

There  is  a  Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine, 
That  shrinks,  like  many  more,  from  cold  and  rain ; 
And,  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine, 
Bright  as  the  sun  himself,  't  is  out  again  ! 

When  hailstones  have    been   falling,    swarm    en 

swarm, 
Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distressed, 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm, 
In  close  self-shelter,  like  a  thing  at  rest. 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  Flower  I  passed 
And  recognized  it,  though  an  altered  form. 
Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  blast. 
And  buffeted  at  will  by  rain  and  storm. 

I  stopped,  and  said  with  inly  muttered  voice, 
"  It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold  : 
This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice. 
But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 

"  The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew ; 
It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay ; 
Citiff  in  its  members,  withered,  changed  of  hue." 
And,  in  my  spleen,  I  smiled  that  it  was  gray. 


132  THE    TWO    THTKVKS. 

To  be  a  Piodisral's  Favorite,  —  then,  worse  truth. 
A  INIiser's  Pensioner,  —  behold  our  lot ! 
0  ]\Ian,  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  take  the  things  Youth  needed  not ! 

1804. 


rv. 

THE  TWO  THIEVES; 
OR,   THE   LAST    STAGE    OF    AVARICE. 

0  NOW  that  the  genius  of  Bewick  were  mine, 
And  the  skill  which  he  learned  on  the  banks  of 

the  Tyne  ! 
Then  the  Muses  might  deal  with  me  just  as  they 

chose. 
For  I  d  take  my  last  leave  both  of  verse  and  of 

prose. 

Wliat  feats  would  T  work  with  my  magical  hand ! 
Book-learning  and  books  should  be  banished  the 

land : 
And,  for  hunger  and  thirst  and  such  troublesome 

calls, 
Every  ale-house  should  then  have  a  feast  on  its 

walls. 

Thotravellor  would  hang  his  wet  clothes  on  a  chaii". 
Let  them  smoke,  let  thom  burn,  not  a  straw  would 
lie  care ! 


THE    TWO    THIKVES.  133 

For  the  Prodigal  Son,  Joseph's  Dieara  and  his 

Sheaves, 
0,  what  would  they  be  to  my  tale  of  Two  Thieves  ? 

The  one,  yet  unbreeched,  is  not  three  birthdays  old, 
His  Grandsire  that  age  more  than  thirty  times  told  ; 
There  are  ninety  good  seasons  of  fair  and  foul 

weather 
Between  them,  and  both  go  a  pilfering  together. 

With  chips  is  the  carpenter  strewing  his  floor  ? 
Is  a  cart-load  of  turf  at  an  old  woman's  door  ? 
Old  Daniel  his  hand  to  the  treasure  wdll  slide  ! 
And  his  Grandson  's  as  busy  at  work  by  his  side. 

Old  Daniel  begins  ;  he  stops  short,  —  and  his  eye, 
Through  the  lost  look  of  dotage,  is  cunning  and  sly  • 
'T  is  a  look  which  at  this  time  is  hardly  his  own, 
But  tells  a  plain  tale  of  the  days  that  are  flown 

He  once  had  a  heart  which  was  moved  by  the  wires 

Of  manifold  pleasures  and  many  desires  : 

And  what  if  he  cherished  his  purse  ?     'T  was  no 

more 
Than  treading  a  path  trod  by  thousands  before. 

'T  was  a  path  trod  by  thousands  ;  but  Daniel  is  one 
"Who  went  something  farther  than  others  have  gone ; 
And  now  with  old  Daniel  you  see  how  it  fares, 
Vou  see  to  what  end  he  has  brought  his  gray  hairs. 


loi      ANIMAL    TKANQUIl.MTV    AND    DI^CAf- 

The  pair  sally  fovtli  hand  ia  hand  :  eie  the  sun 
Has  peered  o'er  the  heeches,  their  work  is  begun : 
And  yet,  into  whatever  sin  they  may  fall, 
This  cliild  but  half  knows  it,  and  that  not  at  all. 

They  hunt  through  the  streets  with  deliberate  tread, 
And  each,  in  his  turn,  becomes  leader  or  led ; 
And,  wherever  they  carry  their  plots  and  their  wiles, 
Every  face  in  the  village  is  dimpled  with  smiles. 

Neither  checked  by  the  rich  nor  the  needy,  they 

roam ; 
For  the  gray-headed  Sire  has  a  daughter  at  home, 
Who  will  gladly  repair  all  the  damage  that 's  done  ; 
And  three,  were  it  asked,  would  be  rendered  for  one. 

Old  Man  !  whom  so  oft  I  with  pity  have  eyed, 
I  love  thee,  and  love  the  sweet  Boy  at  thy  side : 
Long  yet  mayst  thou  live !  for  a  teacher  we  see 
That  lifts  up  the  veil  of  our  nature  in  thee. 

1800. 


V. 

ANIMAL   TRANQUILLITY   AND   DECAY 

The  little  hedgerow  birds, 
riiat  peck  along  the  road,  regard  him  not. 
lie  travels  on,  and  in  his  face,  his  step, 


AXIMAL    TRANQUILLITY   AND    DECAY.     135 

His  gait,  is  one  expression  :  every  limb, 

His  look  and  bending  figure,  all  bespeak 

A  man  who  does  not  move  with  pain,  but  moves 

With  thought.  —  He  is  insensibly  subdued 

To  settled  quiet :  he  is  one  by  whoTS 

All  effort  seems  forgotten  ;  one  to  whom 

Long  patience  hath  such  mild  composure  given, 

That  patience  now  doth  seem  a  thing  of  which 

He  hath  no  need.     He  is  by  nature  led 

To  peace  so  perfect,  that  the  young  behold 

With  envy  what  the  Old  Man  hardly  feel. 

1798. 


EPITAPHS  AND   ELEGIAC   PIECES. 


tf 


EPITAPHS 

TRA^'SLATED  FROM  CHIABIi£BA. 


Weep  not,  beloved  Friends  !  nor  let  the  air 
For  me  with  sighs  be  troubled.     Not  from  life 
Have  I  been  taken  ;  this  is  genuine  life 
And  this  alone,  —  the  life  which  now  I  live 
In  peace  eternal ;  where  desire  and  joy 
Together  move  in  fellowship  without  end. — 
Francesco  Ceni  willed  that,  after  death, 
His  tombstone  thus  should  speak  for  him.    And 

surely 
Small  cause  there  is  for  that  fond  wish  of  oura 
Long  to  continue  in  tliis  world ;  a  world 
That  keeps  not  faith,  nor  yet  can  point  a  hope 
To  good,  whereof  itself  is  destitute. 


II. 

Pkritaps  some  needful  service  of  the  State 
Drew  Tiriis  from  th(;  dopth  of  studious  bowers, 


EPITAVHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  lo7 

A-iid  doomed  him  to  contend  in  faithless  courts. 
Where  gold  determines  between  right  and  wrong. 
Yet  did  at  length  his  loyalty  of  heart, 
And  his  pure  native  genius,  lead  him  back 
To  wait  upon  the  bright  and  gracious  Muses, 
Whom  he  had  early  loved.     And  not  in  vain 
Such  course  he  held  !     Bologna's  learned  schools 
Were  gladdened  by  the  Sage's  voice,  and  hung 
With  fondness  on  those  sweet  Nestorian  strains. 
There  pleasure  crowned  his  days ;    and  all  his 

thoughts 
A  roseate  fragrance  breathed.*  —  0  human  life, 
That  never  art  secure  from  dolorous  change  ! 
Behold  a  high  injunction  suddenly 
To  Arno's  side  hath  brought  him,  and  he  charmed 
A  Tuscan  audience  :  but  full  soon  was  called 
To  the  perpetual  silence  of  the  grave. 
Mourn,  Italy,  the  loss  of  him  who  stood 
A  Champion  steadfast  and  invincible, 
To  quell  the  rage  of  literary  War  ! 


0  THOU  who  movest  onward  with  a  mind 
Intent  upon  thy  way,  pause,  though  in  haste ! 
'T  will  be  no  fruitless  moment.     I  was  born 
Within  Savona's  walls,  of  gentle  blood. 

*  Ivi  vivea  giocondo  e  i  suoi  pensieri 
Erano  tutti  rose. 

''Le  Translator  had  not  skill  to  come  nearer  to  his  original. 


138  EPITAPHS    AND    KLEGIAC    PIECES. 

On  Tiber's  banks  my  youtb  was  dedicate 
To  sacred  studies ;  and  the  Roman  Shepherd 
Gave  to  my  charge  Urbino's  numei'ous  flock. 
Well  did  I  watch,  much  labored,  nor  had  power 
To  escape  from  many  and  strange  indignities ; 
Was  smitten  by  the  great  ones  of  the  world, 
But  did  not  fall ;  for  Virtue  braves  all  shocks, 
Upon  hei'self  resting  immovably. 
Me  did  a  kindlier  fortune  then  invite 
To  serve  the  glorious  Henry,  King  of  France, 
And  in  his  hands  I  saw  a  high  reward 
Stretched  out  for  my   acceptance,  —  but   Death 

came. 
Now,  Reader,  learn  from  this  my  fate,  how  false, 
How  treacherous  to  her  promise,  is  the  world ; 
And  trust  in  God, — Jto  whose  eternal  doom 
Must  bend  the  sceptred  Potentates  of  earth. 


IV. 

Theke  never  breathed  a  man  who,  when  his  life 
Was  closing;,  miffht  not  of  that  lift^  relate 
Toils  long  and  hard.  — The  warrior  will  report 
Of  wounds,  and  bright  swords  flashing  in  the  fleld, 
And  blast  of  trumpets.     He  who  hath  been  doomed 
To  bow  his  forehead  in  the  courts  of  kings, 
Will  tell  of  fraud  and  never-ceasing  hate. 
Envy  and  hcart-incpiietude,  derived 
From  intricate  cabals  of  treacherous  friends. 


EPITAPHS   AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  139 

I,  who  on  shipboard  lived  from  earliest  youth, 
Could  represent  the  countenance  horrible 
Of"  the  vexed  waters,  and  the  indignant  rage 
Of  Auster  and  Bootes.     Fifty  years 
Over  the  well-steered  galleys  did  I  rule:  — 
From  huge  Pelorus  to  the  Atlantic  pillars, 
Rises  no  mountain  to  mine  eyes  unknown ; 
And  the  broad  gulfs  I  traversed  oft  and  oft. 
Of  every  cloud  which  in  the  heavens  might  stir 
I  knew  the  force  ;  and  hence  the  rough  sea's  pride 
Availed  not  to  my  Vessel's  overthrow. 
What  noble  pomp  and  frequent  have  not  I 
On  regal  decks  beheld  !  yet  in  the  end 
I  learned  that  one  poor  moment  can  suffice 
To  equalize  the  lofty  and  the  low. 
We  sail  the  sea  of  life,  —  a  Calm  one  finds. 
And  one  a  Tempest,  —  and,  the  voyage  o'er, 
Death  is  the  quiet  haven  of  us  all. 
If  more  of  my  condition  ye  would  know, 
Savona  was  my  birthplace,  and  I  sprang 
Of  noble  parents  :  seventy  years  and  three 
Lived  I,  —  then  yielded  to  a  slow  disease. 


V. 


True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero, 
With  an  untoward  fate,  was  long  involved 
In  odious  litio;ation  ;  and  full  Ions:, 
Fate  harder  still !  had  he  to  endure  assaults 


i.40  KPITATHS    AND    KLEGIAC    PIECKS. 

Of  racking  malady.     And  true  it  is, 

That  not  the  less  a  fi*ank,  courageous  heart 

And  buoyant  spirit  triumphed  over  pain  ; 

And  he  was  strong  to  follow  in  the  steps 

Of  the  fair  Muses.     Not  a  covert  path 

Leads  to  the  dear  Parnassian  forest's  shade, 

That  might  from  him  be  hidden  ;  not  a  track 

Mounts  to  pellucid  Hippocrene,  but  he 

Had  traced  its  windings.  —  This  Savona  knows. 

Yet  no  sepulchral  honors  to  her  Son 

She  paid,  for  in  our  age  the  heart  is  ruled 

Only  by  gold.     And  now  a  simple  stone 

Inscribed  with  this  memorial  here  is  raised 

By  his  bereft,  his  lonely  Chiabrera. 

Think  not,  0  Passenger  who  read'st  the  lines ! 

That  an  exceeding  love  hath  dazzled  me ; 

No,  —  he  was  one  whose  memory  ought  to  spread 

Where'er  Permessus  bears  an  honored  name, 

And  live  as  long  as  its  pure  stream  shall  flow. 


VI. 


Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy 
Was  I,  Roberto  Dati,  and  I  took 
In  Malta  the  white  symbol  of  the  Cross  : 
Nor  in  life's  vigorous  season  did  I  shun 
Hazard  or  toil ;  among  the  sands  was  seen 
Of  Lybia;  and  not  seldom  on  the  banks 
Of  wide,  Hungarian  Danube,  'twas  my  lot 


EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  141 

To  hear  the  sanguinary  trumpet  sounded. 
So  hved  I,  and  repined  not  at  such  fate : 
This  only  grieves  me,  for  it  seems  a  wrong,     • 
That,  stripped  of  arms,  I  to  my  end  am  brought 
On  the  soft  down  of  my  paternal  home. 
Yet  haply  Arno  shall  be  spared  all  cause 
To  blush  for  me.     Thou,  loiter  not  nor  halt 
In  thy  appointed  way,  and  bear  in  mind 
How  fleeting  and  how  frail  is  human  hfe  ! 


VII. 


0  FLOWER  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood. 
And  all  that  generous  nurture  breeds  to  make 
Youth  amiable  !     O  friend  so  true  of  soul 
To  fair  Aglaia  !  by  what  envy  moved, 
Lelius !  has  death  cut  short  thy  brilliant  day 
In  its  sweet  opening  ?  and  what  dire  mishap 
Has  from  Savona  torn  her  best  delight? 
For  thee  she  mourns,  nor  e'er  will  cease  to  mourn; 
And,  should  the  outpourings  of  her  eyes  suffice  not 
For  her  heart's  grief,  she  will  entreat  Sebeto 
Not  to  withhold  his  bounteous  aid,  Sebeto, 
Who  saw  thee,  on  his  margin,  yield  to  death. 
In  the  chaste  arms  of  thy  beloved  Love  ! 
What  profit  riches  ?  what  does  youth  avail  ? 
Dust  are  our  hopes  ;  —  I,  weeping  bitterly, 
Penned  these  sad  lines,  nor  can  forbear  to  pray 
Tliat  every  gentle  Spirit  hither  led 
May  read  them  not  without  some  bitter  tears. 


142  EPITAPHS    AND    KLEOIAC    PIECES. 


VIII. 

Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  he 

On  whom  the  duty  fell  (for  at  that  time 

The  father  sojourned  in  a  distant  land) 

Deposit  in  the  hollow  of  this  tomb 

A  brotlier's  Child,  most  tenderly  beloved ! 

Francesco  was  the  name  the  Youth  had  borne, 

PozzOBONNELLi  his  illustrious  house  ; 

And  when  beneath  this  stone  the  Corse  was  laid. 

The. eyes  of  all  Savona  streamed  with  tears. 

Alas  !  the  twentieth  April  of  his  life 

Had  scarcely  flowered :  and  at  this  early  time, 

By  genuine  virtue  he  inspired  a  hope 

That  greatly  cheered  his  country :  to  his  kin 

He  promised  comfort ;  and  the  flattering  thoughts 

His  friends  had  in  their  fondness  entertained,* 

He  suffered  not  to  languish  or  decay. 

Now  is  there  not  good  reason  to  break  forth 

Into  a  passionate  lament  ?  —  0  Soul ! 

Sliort  while  a  Pilgrim  in  our  nether  world, 

Do  thou  enjoy  the  calm  empyreal  air  ; 

Atid  round  this  earthly  tomb  let  roses  rise, 

An  everlasting  spring !  in  memory 

Of  that  (h-Iightful  fragrance  which  was  once 

From  tliy  mild  manners  quietly  exhaled. 

*  In  justice  to  the  Author,  I  subjoin  the  original:  — 

e  degli  amici 

Non  lusciiiva  liinguire  i  bei  pensieri. 


EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  143 


IX. 


Pause,  courteous  Spirit !  —  Balbi  supplicates 
That  thou,  with  no  reluctant  voice,  for  him 
Here  laid  in  mortal  darkness,  wouldst  prefer 
A  prayer  to  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 
This  to  the  dead  by  sacred  right  belongs ; 
All  else  is  nothing.  —  Did  occasion  suit 
To  tell  his  worth,  the  marble  of  this  tomb 
Would  ill  suffice :  for  Plato's  lore  subUme, 
And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Stagirite, 
Enriched  and  beautified  his  studious  mind  : 
Witii  Archimedes  also  he  conversed 
As  with  a  chosen  friend  ;  nor  did  he  leave 
Those   laureate  wreaths  ungathered    which    the 

Nymphs 
Twine  near  their  loved  Permessus.  —  Finally, 
Himself  above  each  lower  thought  uplifting, 
His  ears  he  closed  to  listen  to  the  songs       \ 
Wliich  Sion's  Kings  did  consecrate  of  old ; 
And  his  Permessus  found  on  Lebanon. 
A  blessed  man  !  who  of  protracted  days 
Made  not,  as  thousands  do,  a  vulgar  sleep  ; 
But  truly  did  he  live  his  life.     Urbino, 
Take  pride  in  him  !  —  O  Passenger,  farewell ! 


1-14  KPITAPHS    ANI>    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 


I. 


Bra  blest  Husband  guided,  Mary  came 
From  nearest  kindred,  Vernon  her  new  name ; 
Slie  came,  though  meek  of  soul,  in  seemly  pride 
Of  happiness  and  hope,  a  youthful  Bride. 
O  dread  reverse !  if  aught  be  so,  which  proves 
That  God  will  chasten  whom  he  dearly  loves. 
Faith  bore  her  up  through  pains  in  mercy  given, 
And  troubles  that  were  each  a  step  to  Heaven  : 
Two  Babes  were  laid  in  earth  before  she  died ; 
A  third  now  slumbers  at  the  Mother's  side  ; 
Its  Sister-twin  survives,  whose  smiles  afford 
A  trembling  solace  to  her  widowed  Lord. 

Reader  !  if  to  thy  bosom  cling  the  pain 
Of  recent  sorrow  combated  in  vain  ; 
Or  if  thy  cherished  grief  have  failed  to  thwart 
Time,  still  intent  on  his  insidious  part, 
Lulling  the  mourner's  best  good  thoughts  asleep. 
Pilfering  regrets  we  would,  but  cannot,  keep  ; 
Bear  with  him, — judge  Mm  gently  who  makes 

known 
His  bitter  loss  by  this  memorial  Stone  ; 
And  pray  that  in  his  faithful  breast  the  grace 
Of  resignation  find  a  hallowed  place. 


EPITAPHS   AND    ELEGIAC   PIECES.  145 


II. 


Six  months  to  six  years  added  he  remained 

Lipon  this  sinful  earth,  by  sin  unstained: 

0  blessed  Lord  !  whose  mercy  then  removed 

A  Child  whom  every  eye  that  looked  on  loved 

Support  us,  teach  us  calmly  to  resign 

What  we  possessed,  and  now  is  wholly  thine  ! 


III. 
CENOTAPH. 


In  affectionate  remembrance  of  Frances  Fermor,  whose  re- 
mains are  deposited  in  the  church  of  Claines,  near  Worcester, 
this  stone  is  erected  by  her  sister,  Dame  JIargaret,  wife  of  Sir 
George  Beaumont,  Bart.,  who,  feeling  not  less  than  the  love 
of  a  brother  for  the  deceased,  commends  this  memorial  to 
the  care  of  his  heirs  and  successors  in  the  possession  of  thii 
place. 

By  vain  affections  unenthralled, 
Though  resolute  when  duty  called 
To  meet  the  world's  broad  eye, 
Pure  as  the  holiest  cloistered  nun 
That  ever  feared  the  tempting  sun, 
Did  Fermor  live  and  die. 

This  Tablet,  hallowed  by  her  name, 
One  heart-relieving  tear  may  claim ; 
But  if  the  pensive  gloom 
\ou.  v.  10 


146  Ei'ITAPHS    AND    KLEGIAC    PIKCES. 

Of  fond  regret  be  still  thy  choice, 
Exalt  thy  spirit,  hear  the  voice 
Of  Jesus  from  her  tomb  ! 

"  1    AJl    THE    WAY,    THE    TRUTH,    AND  THE  LIli'E.' 


IV. 

EPITAPH 

IN  THE  CHAPEL- YARD    OF   LANGDALE,   WESTMORBLAJIIX 

Bt  playful  smiles,  (alas  !  too  oft 

A  sad  heart's  sunshine,)  by  a  soft 

And  gentle  nature,  and  a  free 

Yet  modest  hand  of  charity, 

Through  life  was  Owen  Lloyd  endeared 

To  young  and  old ;  and  how  revered 

Had  been  that  pious  spirit,  a  tide 

Of  humble  moui'ners  testified. 

When,  after  pains  dispensed  to  prove 

The  measure  of  God's  chastening  love, 

Here,  brought  from  far,  his  corse  found  rest,— 

Fulfilment  of  his  own  request;  — 

Urged  less  for  this  Yew's  shade,  though  he 

Planted  with  such  fond  hope  the  tree, 

Less  for  the  love  of  stream  and  rock, 

Dear  as  they  were,  than  that  his  Flock, 

Wlien  they  no  more  tlicir  Pasfor's  voice 

Could  hear  to  guide  them  in  their  choice 


EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  1-17 

rii  rough  good  and  evil,  help  might  have, 
Admonished,  from  his  silent  grave, 
Of  righteousness,  of  sins  forgiven, 
For  peace  on  earth  and  bliss  in  heaven. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   SCHOLARS   OF  THE 
VILLAGE   SCHOOL   OF  . 

1798. 

I  COME,  ye  little  noisy  Crew, 
Not  long  your  pastime  to  prevent; 
I  heard  the  blessing  which  to  you 
Our  common  Friend  and  Father  sent. 
I  kissed  his  cheek  before  he  died ; 
And  when  his  breath  was  fled, 
I  raised,  while  kneeling  by  his  side, 
His  hand  :  —  it  dropped  like  lead. 
Your  hands,  dear  Little-ones,  do  all 
That  can  be  done,  will  never  fall 
Like  his  till  they  are  dead. 
By  night  or  day,  blow  foul  or  fair. 
Ne'er  will  the  best  of  all  your  train 
Play  with  the  locks  of  his  white  hair, 
Or  stand  between  his  knees  again. 

Here  did  he  sit  confined  for  hours  ; 
But  he  could  see  the  woods  and  plains, 


148  EPITAPHS    AND    KLEGIAC    PIECKS. 

Could  hear  the  wind  and  mark  the  showers 

Come  streaming  down  the  streaming  panes. 

Now  stretched  beneath  his  grass-green  mound 

He  rests  a  prisoner  of  the  ground. 

He  loved  the  breathing  air, 

He  loved  the  sun,  but  if  it  rise 

Or  set,  to  him  where  now  he  lies, 

Brings  not  a  moment's  care. 

Alas  !  what  idle  words  ;  but  take 

The  Dirge  which,  for  our  Master's  sake 

And  yours,  love  prompted  me  to  make. 

The  rhymes  so  homely  in  attire 

"With  learned  ears  may  ill  agree, 

But,  chanted  by  your  Orphan  Choir, 

Will  make  a  touching  melody. 

DIKGE. 

Mourn,  Shepherd,  near  thy  old  gray  stone ; 
Thou  Angler,  by  the  silent  flood ; 
And  mourn  when  thou  art  all  alone. 
Thou  Woodman,  in  the  distant  wood ! 

Thou  one  blind  Sailor,  rich  in  joy 
Though  blind,  thy  tunes  in  sadness  hum  ; 
And  mourn,  thou  poor  half-witted  Boy  ! 
Born  deaf,  and  living  deaf  and  dumb. 

Thou  drooping  sick  Man,  bless  the  Guide 
Who  checked  or  turned  thy  headstrong  youth, 


EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  119 

As  he  before  had  sanctified 

Thy  infancy  with  heavenly  truth. 

Ye  Striplings,  light  of  heart  and  g9,y, 

Bold  settlers  on  some  foreign  shore, 

Give,  when  your  thoughts  ai'e  turned  this  way 

A  sigh  to  him  whom  we  deplore. 

For  us  who  here  in  funeral  strain 
With  one  accord  our  voices  raise, 
Let  sorrow  overcharged  with  pain 
Be  lost  in  thankfulness  and  pi'aise. 

And  when  our  hearts  shall  feel  a  sting 
From  ill  we  meet  or  good  we  miss, 
May  touches  of  his  memory  bring 
Fond  heaUng,  like  a  mother's  kiss. 


BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  GRAVE  SOME  YEARS  AFTER. 

Long  time  his  pulse  hath  ceased  to  beat ; 
But  benefits,  his  gift,  we  trace,  — 
Expressed  in  every  eye  we  meet 
Round  this  dear  Vale,  his  native  place- 
To  stately  Hall  and  Cottage  rude 
Flowed  from  his  life  what  still  they  hold, 
Light  pleasures,  every  day  renewed. 
And  blessings  half  a  century  old. 


I.jl)  EriTATHS    AND    r.I.EOTAC    riECE3 

O  true  of  heart,  of  spirit  gay, 
Thy  faults,  where  not  already  gone 
From  memory,  prolong  their  stay 
For  charky's  sweet  sake  alone. 

Such  solace  find  we  for  our  loss  ; 
And  what  beyond  this  thought  we  crave 
Comes  in  the  promise  from  the  Cross, 
Shining  upon  thy  happy  grave.* 


VI. 
ELEGIAC    STANZAS, 

iOGOESTED   BY  A  PICTUKE   OF  PEELE    CASTLE,   IN  A  STOKM, 
PAINTED    BY   SIR   GEORGE   BEAUMONT. 

I  WAS  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  Pile  ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee: 
I  saw  thee  every  day  ;  and  all  the  while 
Tliy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air ! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day ! 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thy  Image  still  was  there ; 
\t  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 


*  See,  upon  the  subject  of  the  three  foregoing  pieces,  the 
Fountain.  &c.,  in  the  fourth  volume  of  the  Author's  Poems. 


EPITAPHS    A.ND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  151 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !  it  seemed  no  sleep  ; 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings  : 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  Things. 

Ah  !  THEN,  if  mine  had  been  the  Painter's  hand. 
To  express  what  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land. 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream ; 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  Pile, 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile  ; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seemed  a  treasure-house  di- 
vine 
Of  peaceful  years  ;  a  chronicle  of  heaven  ;  — 
Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine, 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A  Picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife ; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  Picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made; 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 

A  steadfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betrayed. 


152  EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 

So  once  it  would  have  been,  —  't  is  so  no  more  ; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control ; 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been : 
The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old  ; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend  !  who  would  have  been 

the  Friend, 
If  he  had  lived,  of  him  whom  I  deplore, 
This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend ; 
This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0  't  is  a  passionate  Work  !  —  yet  wise  and  well, 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here ; 

That  Hulk  which  labors  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear ! 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

1  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 
Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armor  of  old  time. 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind  1 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known. 
Is  to  be  pitied  ;  for  't  is  surely  blind. 


EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  153 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here.  — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 

18fA 


VII. 

TO    THE  DAISY. 

Sweet  Flower !  belike  one  day  to  have 
A  place  upon  thy  Poet's  grave, 
I  welcome  thee  once  more  : 
But  he,  who  was  on  land,  at  sea, 
My  Brother,  too,  in  loving  thee, 
Although  he  loved  more  silently 
Sleeps  by  his  native  shore. 

Ah  !  hopeful,  hopeful  was  the  day 

When  to  that  Ship  he  bent  his  way, 

To  govern  and  to  guide  : 

His  wish  was  gained  :  a  little  time 

Would  bring  him  back,  in  manhood's  prime 

And  free  for  life,  these  hills  to  climb, 

With  all  his  wants  supplied. 

And  full  of  hope  day  followed  day 
While  that  stout  Ship  at  anchor  lay 
Beside  the  shores  of  Wight ; 
The  May  had  then  made  all  things  green, 


164         EPITAPHS   AND    KLEGIAC    PIECES. 

And,  floating  there,  in  pomp  serene, 
That  Ship  was  goodly  to  be  seen, 
His  pride  and  his  delight ! 

Yet  then,  when  called  ashore,  he  sought 
The  tender  peace  of  rural  thought : 
In  more  than  happy  mood 
To  your  abodes,  briglit  daisy  Flowers  ! 
He  then  would  steal  at  leisure  hours, 
And  loved  you  glittering  in  your  bowers, 
A  starry  multitude. 

But  hark  the  word  !  —  the  ship  is  gone  ;  - 

Returns  from  her  long  coui-se  ;  —  anon 

Sets  sail ;  —  in  season  due. 

Once  more  on  English  earth  they  stand : 

But,  when  a  third  time  from  the  land 

They  parted,  sorrow  was  at  hand 

For  him  and  for  his  crew. 

Ill-fated  Vessel !  —  ghastly  shock  ! 
—  At  length  delivered  from  the  rock, 
The  de(;p  she  hath  regained ; 
And  through  the  stormy  night  they  steer, 
Laboring  for  life,  in  hope  and  fear, 
To  j-each  a  safer  shore,  —  how  near, 
Yet  not  to  be  attained  ! 

"  Silence  !  "  the  brave  Commander  cried  ; 
To  (hat  calm  word  a  shriek  replied. 


EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  1^5 

It  was  the  last  death-shriek. 
—  A  few  (my  soul  oft  sees  that  sight) 
Sui-vive  upon  the  tall  mast's  height ; 
But  one  dear  remnant  of  the  night,  — 
For  him  in  vain  I  seek. 

Six  weeks  beneath  the  moving  sea 

He  lay  in  slumber  quietly  ; 

Unforced  by  wind  or  wave 

To  quit  the  ship  for  which  he  died, 

(All  claims  of  duty  satisfied ;) 

And  there  they  found  him  at  her  side, 

And  bore  him  to  the  grave. 

Vain  service  !  yet  not  vainly  done 
For  this,  if  other  end  Avere  none. 
That  he,  who  had  been  cast 
Upon  a  way  of  life  unmeet 
For  such  a  gentle  Soul  and  sweet. 
Should  find  an  undisturbed  retreat 
Near  what  he  loved,  at  last  — 

The  neighborhood  of  grove  and  field 

To  him  a  resting-place  should  yield, 

A  meek  man  and  a  brave  ! 

The  birds  shall  sing  and  ocean  make 

A  mournful  murmur  for  Ms  sake  ; 

And  thou,  sweet  flower,  shalt  sleep  and  svake 

Upon  his  senseless  grave. 

1805. 


156         EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIKCKS. 

VIII. 

ELEGIAC   VERSES, 

IN   MEMORY   OF  MY    BROTHER,   JOHN    WORDSWORTH, 

Commander  of  the  E.  I.  Company's  ship,  the  Earl  of  Aberga- 
veimy,  in  which  he  perished  by  a  cahimitous  shipwreck,  Feb. 
6th,  1805.  Composed  near  the  monutain  track,  that  leada 
from  Grasmere  through  Grisdale  Hawes,  where  it  descends 
towards  Patterdale. 

1805. 


The  Sheep-boy  whistled  loud,  and  lo ! 
That  instant,  startled  by  the  shock, 
The  Buzzard  mounted  from  the  rock 
Deliberate  and  slow  : 
Lord  of  the  air,  he  took  his  flight ; 
O,  could  he  on  that  woful  night 
Have  lent  his  wing,  my  Brother  dear, 
For  one  poor  moment's  space,  to  thee, 
And  all  who  struggled  witli  the  Sea, 
When  safety  was  so  near ! 

II. 

Thus  in  the  weakness  of  my  heart 
I  spoke,  (but  let  that  pang  be  still,) 
When,  rising  from  the  rock  at  will, 
I  saw  tiie  bird  depart. 
And  let  me  calmly  bless  the  Power 


EPITAPHS    AND    FXEGIAC    PIECES.  lo7 

That  meets  me  in  this  unknown  flower, 
A.ffecting  tj^pe  of  him  I  mourn ! 
With  calmness  suffer  and  believe, 
And  grieve,  and  know  that  I  must  grieve, 
Not  cheerless,  though  forlorn. 

in. 

Here  did  we  stop ;  and  here  looked  round 

While  each  into  himself  descends, 

For  that  last  thought  of  parting  Friends 

That  is  not  to  be  found. 

Hidden  was  Grasmere  Vale  from  sight, 

Our  home  and  his,  his  heart's  delight. 

His  quiet  heart's  selected  home. 

But  time  before  him  melts  away, 

And  he  hath  feeling  of  a  day 

Of  blessedness  to  come. 

rv. 

Full  soon  in  sorrow  did  I  weep. 

Taught  that  the  mutual  hope  was  dust. 

In  sorrow,  but  for  higher  trust. 

How  miserably  deep  ! 

All  vanished  in  a  single  word, 

A  breath,  a  sound,  and  scarcely  heard. 

Sea,  —  ship, — drowned, —  shipwreck,  —  so  it  came, 

The  meek,  the  brave,  the  good,  was  gone ; 

He  who  had  been  our  living  John 

■^as  nothing  but  a  name. 


It}8  EPITAPHS    AND    ELKGIAC    I'liiCES. 


That  was  indeed  a  parting  !  O. 

Glad  am  I,  glad  that  it  is  past ! 

For  there  were  some  on  whom  it  cast 

Unutterable  woe. 

But  they  as  well  as  I  have  gains ;  — 

From  many  a  humble  soui'ce,  to  pains 

Like  these,  there  comes  a  mild  I'elease  ; 

Even  here  I  feel  it,  even  this  Plant 

Is  in  its  beauty  ministrant 

To  comfort  and  to  peace. 

VI. 

He  would  have  loved  thy  modest  grace, 

Meek  Flower !     To  him  I  would  have  said, 

"  It  grows  upon  its  native  bed 

Beside  our  Parting-place ; 

There,  cleaving  to  the  ground,  it  lies, 

With  multitude  of  purple  eyes, 

Spangling  a  cushion  green  like  moss ; 

But  we  will  see  it,  joyful  tide  I 

Some  day,  to  see  it  in  its  pride, 

The  mountain  we  will  cross." 

vii. 

—  Brother  and  friend,  if  verse  of  mine 

Have  power  to  make  thy  virtues  known. 

Here  let  a  monumental  Stone 

Stand,  sacred  as  a  Slirine  ; 

And  to  the  few  who  pass  this  way, 


EPITArHS    AM)    KLICGIAC    PIECES.  159 

Traveller  or  Shepherd,  let  it  say, 
Long  as  these  mighty  rocks  endure,  — 
O,  do  not  thou  too  fondly  brood, 
Although  deserving  of  all  good, 
On  any  earthly  hope,  however  pure  !  * 


IX. 

SOKNET. 


Why  should  we  weep  or  mourn,  Angelic  Boy, 

For  such  thou  wert  ere  from  our  sight  removed, 

Holy,  and  ever  dutiful,  —  beloved 

From  day  to  day  with  never-ceasing  joy, 

And  hopes  as  dear  as  could  the  heart  employ 

In  aught  to  eaith  pertaining  ?     Death  has  proved 

His  might,  nor  less  his  mercy,  as  behoved,  — 

Death,  conscious  that  he  only  could  destroy 

The  bodily  frame.     That  beauty  is  laid  low 

To  moulder  in  a  far-off  field  of  Rome  ; 

But  Heaven  is  now, blest  Child,  thy  Spirit's  home: 

When  such  divine  communion,  which  we  know, 

Is  felt,  thy  Roman  burial-place  will  be 

Surely  a  sweet  remembrancer  of  thee. 

1S46. 

*  The  plant  alluded  to  is  the  Moss  Campion  (Silene  acauliB 
jf  LinuaBus).  See  note  at  the  end  of  the  volume.  See,  among 
the  Poems  on  the  "  Naming  of  Places,"  No.  VI. 


160  KFITAPUS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 

X. 

LINES 

Composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  walk  one  Evening,  after  a 
stormy  day,  the  Autlior  having  just  read  in  a  Newspaper 
that  the  dissolution  of  Mr.  Fox  was  hourly  expected. 

Loud  is  the  Vale !  the  Voice  is  up 
"With  which  she  speaks  w^hen  storms  are  gone, 
A  mighty  unison  of  streams  ! 
Of  all  her  Voices,  one  ! 

Loud  is  the  Vale ;  —  this  inland  Depth 
In  peace  is  roaring  like  the  Sea; 
Yon  star  upon  the  mountain-top 
Is  listening  quietly. 

Sad  was  I,  even  to  pain  depressed, 
Importunate  and  heavy  load  !  * 
The  Comforter  hath  found  me  here, 
Upon  this  lonely  road ; 

And  many  thousands  now  are  sad,  — 
Wait  the  fulfilment  of  their  fear; 
For  he  must  die  who  is  their  stay, 
Their  glory  disappear. 

A  Power  is  passing  from  the  earth 
To  breathless  Nature's  dark  abyss ; 

•  finportuna  e  grave  Balma.    Michael  Anokix). 


EPITAPHS    AND    ILLEGIAC    PliiCES. 

But  when  the  great  and  good  depart 
What  is  it  more  than  this,  — 

That  man,  who  is  from  God  sent  forth, 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return  ?  — 
Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be, 
Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn  ? 


161 


1806. 


XI. 

INVOCATION   TO   THE  EARTH 

FEBRUARY,  1816. 
I. 

"  Rest,  rest,  perturbed  Earth ! 
0  rest,  thou  doleful  Mother  of  Mankind!" 
A  Spirit  sang  in  tones  more  plaintive  than  the  wind 
"  From  regions  where  no  evil  thing  has  birth 
I  come,  —  thy  stains  to  wash  away, 
Thy  cherished  fetters  to'  unbind. 
And  open  thy  sad  eyes  upon  a  milder  day. 
The  Heavens  are  thronged  with  martyrs  that  have 
risen 

From  out  thy  noisome  prison  ; 

The  penal  caverns  groan 
"With  tens  of  thousands  rent  from  off  the  tree 
Of  hopeful  life,  —  by  battle's  whirlwind  blown 
Into  the  deserts  of  Eternity. 
Unpitied  havoc!     Victims  unlamented  I 

VOL     V.  11 


H)2  EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 

But  not  on  high,  where  madness  is  resented. 
And  murder  causes  some  sad  tears  to  flow, 
Though,  from  the  widely-sweeping  hlow, 
The  choirs  of  Angels  spread,  triumphantly  aug- 
mented. 

11. 

"  False  Parent  of  mankind  ! 

Obdurate,  proud,  and  blind, 
I  sprinkle  thee  with  soft  celestial  dews, 
Thy  lost,  maternal  heart  to  re-infuse  ! 
Scattering  this  far-fetched  moisture  from  my  wings, 
Upon  the  act  a  blessing  I  implore. 
Of  which  the  rivers  in  their  secret  springs, 
The  rivers  stained  so  oft  with  human  gore, 
Are  conscious  ;  —  may  the  like  return  no  more! 
May  Discord,  —  for  a  Seraph's  care 
Shall  be  attended  with  a  bolder  prayer,  — 
May  she,  who  once  disturbed  the  seats  of  bliss 

Tliese  mortal  spheres  above, 
Be  chained  for  ever  to  the  black  abyss ! 
And  thou,  0  rescued  Earth,  by  peace  and  love, 
And  merciful  desires,  thy  sanctity  approve  !  " 

The  Spirit  ended  liis  mysterious  rite, 
And  the  pure  vision  closed  in  darkness  infinite. 


£PIT.\.PHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  165 

XII. 
LINES 

leRITTEN  OX  A  BLANK  LEAF  IX  A  COPY  OF  THE  AUTHOK'S 
POE3I  "the  excursion,"  UPON  HEAKING  OF  THE  DEATH 
OF   THE   LATE  VICAR  OF   KENDAL. 

To  public  notice,  with  reluctance  strong, 

Did  I  deliver  this  unfinished  Song ; 

Yet  for  one  happy  issue ;  —  and  I  look 

With  self-congratulation  on  the  Book 

Which  pious,  learned  Murfitt  saw  and  read  ;  — 

Upon  my  thoughts  his  saintly  Spirit  fed  ; 

He   conned   the   new-born   Lay   with   grateful 

heart,  — 
Foreboding  not  how  soon  he  must  depart ; 
Cnweeting  that  to  him  the  joy  was  given 
Which  good  men  take  with  them  from  earth  lo 

heaven. 


XIII. 

ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

^  ADDRESSED  TO  SIB  G.    H.   B.   UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS 

8ISTEK-IN-LA  W. ) 

1824. 

O  FOR  a  dirge  !  But  why  complain  ? 
Ask  rather  a  triumphal  strain 
Wlien  Feumou's  race  is  run  ; 


164  EPITAPHS    AND    KLEGIAC    PIKCES. 

A  carland  of  immortal  boughs 

To  twine  around  the  Christian's  brows, 

Whose  glorious  work  is  done. 

We  pay  a  high  and  holy  debt ; 
No  tears  of  passionate  regi'et 
Shall  stain  this  votive  lay  ; 
Ill-worthy,  Beaumont !  were  the  grief 
That  flings  itself  on  wild  relief 
When  Saints  have  passed  away. 

Sad  doom,  at  Sorrow's  shi'ine  to  kne*^l, 

For  ever  covetous  to  feel, 

And  impotent  to  bear! 

Such  once  was  hers,  —  to  think  and  think 

On  severed  love,  and  only  sink 

From  anguish  to  despair  I 

But  nature  to  its  inmost  part 

Faith  had  refined  ;  and  to  her  heart 

A  peaceful  cradle  given  : 

Calm  as  the  dew-drop's,  free  to  rest 

Within  a  breeze-fanned  rose's  breast 

Till  it  exhales  to  Heaven. 

Was  ever  Spirit  that  could  bend 

So  gi-aciously  ?  —  that  could  descend. 

Another's  need  to  suit, 

So  promptly  from  her  lofty  throne?  — 

In  works  of  love,  in  these  alone, 

I  low  restless,  how  minute  I 


EFITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  165 

Pale  was  her  hue  ;  yet  mortal  cheek 
Ne'er  kiudled.  with  a  livelier  streak 
When  aught  had  suffered  wrong,  — 
When  aught  that  breathes  had  felt  a  wound ; 
Such  look  the  Oppressor  might  confound, 
However  proud  and  strong. 

But  hushed  be  every  thought  that  springs 
From  out  the  bitterness  of  things  : 
Her  quiet  is  secure  ; 
No  thorns  can  pierce  her  tender  feet, 
Whose  life  was,  like  the  violet,  sweet, 
As  chmbing  jasmine,  pure,  — 

As  snowdrop  on  an  infant's  grave, 

Or  lily  heaving  with  the  wave 

That  feeds  it  and  defends  ; 

As  Vesper,  ere  the  star  hath  kissed 

The  mountain-top,  or  breathed  the  mist 

That  from  the  vale  ascends. 

Thou  takest  not  away,  0  Death  ! 
Thou  strikest,  —  absence  perisheth. 
Indifference  is  no  more  ; 
The  future  brightens  on  our  sisht ; 
For  on  the  past  hath  fallen  a  light 
That  tempts  us  to  adore. 


16G  lil'lTAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 

XIV. 
ELEGIAC  MUSINGS 

n  THIS  GBOUNDS  OF  COLEOKTOM   HALL,    THE  SEAT  OF  IHE 
LATE   SIR   G.   H.    BEAUMONT,   BAKT. 

h\  these  grounds  stands  the  Parish  Church,  wherem  is  a 
mural  monument  bearing  an  Inscription,  which,  in  deference 
to  the  earnest  request  of  the  deceased,  is  confined  to  name, 
dates,  and  these  words: —  "Enter  not  Into  judgment  with  thy 
servant,  0  Lord!  " 

With  copious  eulogy  in  prose  or  rhyme 

Graven  on  the  tomb,  we  struggle  against  Time, 

Ahis,  how  feebly  !  but  our  feelings  rise 

And  still  we  struggle  when  a  good  man  dies. 

Such  offering  Beaumont  dreaded  and  forbade, 

A  spirit  meek  in  self-abasement  clad. 

Yet  here  at  least,  though  few  have  numbered  days 

That  shunned  so  modestly  the  light  of  praise, 

His  graceful  manners,  and  the  temperate  ray 

Of  that  arch  fancy  which  would  round  him  play, 

Brightening  a  converse  never  known  to  swerve 

From  courtesy  and  delicate  reserve  ; 

That  sense,  the  bland  philosophy  of  life, 

Which  checked  discussion  ere  it  warmed  to  strife  ; 

Those  rare  accomplishments,  and  varied  powers, 

Miglit  have  their  record  among  sylvan  bowers. 

Oh,  fh'd  for  (!\  (T  !  vanished  like  a  blast 

That  sliook  the  leaves  in  myriads  as  it  passed ;  — 

Gone  from  tiiis  world  of  earth,  air,  sea,  and  sky, 


EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  1G7 

From  all  its  spirit-moving  imagery, 
Intensely  studied  with  a  painter's  eye, 
A  poet's  heart ;  and,  for  congenial  view, 
Portrayed  with  happiest  pencil,  not  untrue 
To  common  recognitions  while  the  line 
Flowed  in  a  course  of  sympathy  divine  ;  — 
Oh  !  severed,  too  abruptly,  from  delights 
That  all  the  seasons  shared  with  equal  rights  ;  — 
Rapt  in  the  grace  of  undismantled  age, 
From  soul-felt  music,  and  the  treasured  page 
Lit  by  that  evening  lamp  which  loved  to  shed 
Its  mellow  lustre  round  thy  honored  head  ; 
While  Friends  beheld  thee  give,  with  eye,  voice, 

mien. 
More  than  theatric  force  to  Shakespeare's  scene;  — 
If  thou  hast  heard  rae,  —  if  thy  Spirit  know 
Aught  of  these  bowers,  and  whence  their  pleasures 

flow  ; 
If  things  in  our  remembrance  held  so  dear, 
And  thoughts  and  projects  fondly  cherished  here, 
To  thy  exalted  nature  only  seem 
Time's  vanities,  light  fragments  of  earth's  dream,  — 
Rebuke  us  not !  —  The  mandate  is  obeyed 
That  said,  "  Let  praise  be  mute  where  I  am  laid  ' ; 
The  holier  deprecation,  given  in  trust 
To  the  cold  marble,  waits  upon  thy  dust ; 
Yet  have  we  found  how  slowly  genuine  grief 
From  silent  admiration  wins  relief. 
Too  long  abashed,  thy  Name  is  like  a  rose 
That  doth  "  within  itself  its  sweetness  close  " 


168  EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 

A  drooping  daisy  changed  into  a  cup 

In  which  her  bright-eyed  beauty  is  shut  up. 

Wilhin  these  groves,  where  still  are  flitting  by 

Shades  of  the  Past,  oft  noticed  with  a  sigh, 

Shall  stand  a  votive  Tablet,  haply  free, 

"When  towers  and  temples  fall,  to  speak  of  Thee . 

If  sculptured  emblems  of  our  mortal  doom 

Recall  not  there  the  wisdom  of  the  Tomb, 

Green  ivy,  risen  from  out  the  cheerful  earth, 

Will  fringe  the  lettered  stone ;  and  herbs  spring  forth, 

Whose  fragrance,  by  soft  dews  and  rain  unbound, 

Shall  penetrate  the  heart  without  a  wound  ; 

While  truth  and  love  their  purposes  fulfil. 

Commemorating  genius,  talent,  skill, 

That  could  not  lie   concealed  where   thou   wert 

known  ; 
Thy  virtues  He  must  judge,  and  He  alone, 
The  God  upon  whose  mercy  they  are  thrown. 

Nov.,  1830. 


XV. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF 
CHARLES   LAMB. 

To  a  good  Man  of  most  dear  memory 
This  Stone  is  sacred.     Here  he  lies  apart 
From  the  great  city  where  he  first  drew  breath, 
Was  reared  and  taught ;  and  humbly  earned  bis 
bread, 


EPITAPHS    AXD    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  169 

To  tlic  strict  labors  of  the  merchant's  desk 

By  duty  chained.     Not  seldom  did  tliose  tasks 

Tense,  and  the  thought  of  time  so  spent  depress, 

His  spirit,  but  the  recompense  was  high  ; 

Firm  Independence,  Bounty's  rightful  sire  ; 

Affections,  warm  as  sunshine,  free  as  air ; 

And  when  the  pi'ecious  hours  of  leisure  came, 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  gained  from  con  verse  sweet 

With  books,  or  while  he  ranged  the  crowded  streets 

With  a  keen  eye,  and  overflowing  heart : 

So  genius  triumphed  over  seeming  wrong, 

And  poured  out  truth  in  works  by  thoughtful  lore 

Inspired,  —  works  potent  over  smiles  and  tears. 

And  as  round  mountain-tops  the  lightning  plays. 

Thus  innocently  sjjorted,  breaking  forth 

As  from  a  cloud  of  some  grave  sympathy. 

Humor  and  wild  instinctive  wit,  and  all 

The  vivid  flashes  of  his  spoken  words. 

From  the  most  gentle  creature  nursed  in  fields 

Had  been  derived  the  name  he  bore,  —  a  name, 

Wherever  Christian  altars  have  been  raised. 

Hallowed  to  meekness  and  to  innocence  ; 

And  if  in  him  meekness  at  times  gave  way, 

Provoked  out  of  herself  by  troubles  strange, 

Many  and  strange,  that  hung  about  his  life, 

Still,  at  the  centre  of  his  being,  lodged 

A  soul  by  resignation  sanctified  : 

And  if  too  often,  self-reproached,  he  felt 

That  innocence  belongs  not  to  our  kind, 

A  power  that  never  ceased  to  abide  in  him, 


170  v.-l'ITArilS    AND    KLEGIAC    PIECES. 

Clmrity,  'mid  the  multitude  of  sins 

That  she  can  cover,  left  not  his  exposed 

To  an  unforgiving  judgment  from  just  Heaven. 

0,  he  was  good,  if  e'er  a  good  Man  lived  ! 

***** 
From  a  reflecting  mind  and  sorrowing  heart 
Those  simple  lines  flowed,  with  an  earnest  wish, 
Though  but  a  doubting  hope,  that  they  might  serve 
Fitly  to  guai'd  the  precious  dust  of  him 
"Whose  virtues  called  them  forth.     That  aim  is 

missed ; 
For  much  that  truth  most  urgently  re(iuired 
Had  from  a  faltering  pen  been  asked  in  vain  : 
Yet,  haply,  on  the  printed  page  received, 
The  imperfect  record,  there,  may  stand  unblaraed 
As  long  as  verse  of  mine  shall  breathe  the  air 
Of  memory,  or  see  the  light  of  love. 

Thou  wert  a  scorner  of  the  fields,  my  Friend, 
But  more  in  show  than  truth  ;  and  from  the  fields, 
And  from  the  mountains,  to  thy  rural  grave 
Transported,  my  soothed  spirit  hovers  o'er 
Its  green,  untrodden  turf,  and  blowing  flowers  ; 
And,  taking  up  a  voice,  shall  speak  (though  still 
Awed  by  the  theme's  peculiar  sanctity 
Which  words  less  free  presumed  not  even  to  touch) 
Of  that  fraterri.'d  love,  whose  heaven-lit  lamp 
P^'om  infancy,  through  manhood,  to  the  last 
<)f  tlu'cescore  years,  and  to  thy  latest  hour, 
liurnt  on  with  ever-strengthening  liglit,  enshrined 
NVilhin  thy  bosom. 


EPITAPHS   AND   ELEGIAC    PIECES.  171 

«  Wonderful  "  hath  been 
The  love  established  betAveen  man  and  man, 
'  Passing  the  love  of  women  "  ;  and  between 
Man  and  his  helpmate  in  fast  wedlock  joined 
Through  God,  is  raised  a  spirit  and  soul  of  love 
Without  whose  blissful  influence  Paradise 
Had  been  no  Paradise  ;  and  earth  were  now 
A  waste  where  creatures  bearing  human  form, 
Direst  of  savage  beasts,  would  roam  in  fear, 
Joyless  and  comfortless.     Our  days  glide  on  ; 
And  let  him  grieve  who  cannot  choose  but  grieve 
That  he  hatli  been  an  Elm  without  his  Vine, 
And  her  bright  dower  of  clustering  charities, 
That,  round  his  trunk  and  branches,  might  have 

clung. 
Enriching  and  adorning.     Unto  thee, 
Not  so  enriched,  not  so  adorned,  to  thee 
Was  given  (say  rather  thou  of  later  birth 
Wert  given  to  her)  a  Sister,  —  't  is  a  word 
Timidly  uttered,  for  she  lives,  the  meek. 
The  self-restraining,  and  the  ever  kind  ; 
In  whom  thy  reason  and  intelligent  heart 
Found  —  for  all  interests,  hopes,  and  tender  cares, 
All  softening,  humanizing,  hallowing  powers. 
Whether  withheld,  or  for  her  sake  unsought  — 
More  than  sufficient  recompense  ! 

Her  love 
(What  weakness  prompts  the  voice  to  tell  it  here  ?) 
Was  as  the  love  of  mothers ;  and  when  years, 
Lifting  the  boy  to  man's  estate,  had  called 


172  EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 

riie  long  protected  to  assume  the  ^lart 

Of  a  protector,  the  first  filial  tie 

Was  undissolved  ;  and,  in  or  out  of  sight, 

llemained  imperishably  interwoven 

"NVith  life  itself.     Thus,  'mid  a  shifting  world, 

Did  they  together  testify  of  time 

And  season's  difference,  —  a  double  tree 

With  two  collateral  stems  sprung  from  one  root ; 

Such  were  they,  —  such  through  life  the}'  mighl 

have  been 
In  union,  in  partition  only  such  ; 
Otherwise  wrought  the  will  of  the  Most  High ; 
Yet,  through  all  visitations  and  all  trials, 
Still  they  were  faithful ;  like  two  vessels  launched 
From  the  same  beach,  one  ocean  to  explore, 
With  mutual  help,  and  sailing  —  to  their  league 
True,  as  inexorable  winds,  or  bars 
Floating  or  fixed  of  polar  ice,  allow. 

Rut  turn  we  rather,  let  my  spirit  turn 
With  thine,  0  silent  and  invisible  Friend! 
To  those  dear  intervals,  nor  rare  nor  brief. 
When,  reunited,  and  by  choice  withdrawn 
From  miscellaneous  converse,  ye  were  taught 
Tliat  the  remembrance  of  foregone  distress. 
And  the  worse  fear  of  future  ill,  (which  oft 
Doth  hang  around  it,  as  a  sickly  child 
Upon  its  mother,)  may  be  both  alike 
Disarmed  of  power  to  unsettle  pre.-ent  good, 
So  pri;',ed,  and  things  inward  and  outward  held 


jfiPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES.  173 

In  suoli  an  even  balance,  that  the  heart 
Acknowledges  God's  grace,  his  mercy  feels, 
And  in  its  depth  of  gratitude  is  still. 

0  gift  divine  of  quiet  sequestration  ! 
The  hermit,  exercised  in  prayer  and  praise, 
And  feeding  daily  on  the  hope  of  heaven, 
Is  happy  in  his  vow,  and  fondly  cleaves 
To  life-long  singleness  ;  but  happier  far 
Was  to  your  souls,  and,  to  the  thoughts  of  others, 
A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  appeared, 
Your  dual  loneliness.     The  sacred  tie 
Is  broken  ;  yet  why  grieve  ?  for  Time  but  holds 
His  moiety  in  trust,  till  Joy  shall  lead 
To  the  blest  world  where  parting  is  unknown. 

1835. 


XVI. 

FXTEMPOEE  EFFUSION   UPON    THE    DEATH 
OF  JAMES  HOGG. 

When  first,  descending  from  the  moorlands, 

I  saw  the  stream  of  Yarrow  glide 

Along  a  bare  and  open  valley. 

The  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  my  guide. 

When  last  along  its  banks  I  wandered, 
Througli  groves  that  had  begun  to  shed 


l7-i  EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 

TJieir  golden  leaves  upon  the  patlnvays, 
My  steps  the  Border-minstrel  led. 

The  mighty  Minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 
'Mid  mouldering  ruins  low  he  lies  ; 
And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow 
Has  closed  the  Shepherd-poet's  eyes ; 

Nor  has  the  rolling  year  twice  measured, 
From  sign  to  sign,  its  steadfast  course, 
Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source ; 

The  rapt  one,  of  the  godlike  forehead, 
The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth. 
And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle, 
Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth. 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother, 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land  ! 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A  timid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 
"  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear  ?  " 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  darkness, 
Like  London  with  its  own  black  wreath, 


EPITAPHS    AND    ELEGIAC    PIECKS.  1~-T 

On  which,  with  thee,  0  Grabbe!  forth-looking, 
I  gazed  from  Hampstead's  breezy  heath. 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed, 
Thou  too  art  gone  before  ;  but  why, 
O'er  ripe  fruit,  seasonably  gathered, 
Should  fi-ail  survivors  heave  a  sisrh  ? 


o 


Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  Spirit, 
Sweet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deep  ; 
For  her  who,  ere  her  summer  faded, 
Has  sunk  into  a  breathless  sleep. 

No  more  of  old  romantic  sorrows, 
For  slaughtered  youth  or  love-lorn  maid  1 
With  sharper  grief  is  Yarrow  smitten, 
And  Ettrick  mourns  with  her  their  Poet  dead.* 

Nov.,  1835. 


xvn. 

INSCRIPTION 


FOB  A  MONUMENT  IN   CROSTHWAITE   CHURCH,   IN  THK 
VALE   OF  KESWICK. 

Ye  vales  and  hills  whose  beauty  hither  drew 
The  poet's  steps,  and  fixed  him  here,  on  you, 
His  eyes  have  closed  !     And  ye,  loved  books,  no 
more 

*  See  Note. 


176  EPITArHS   AND    ELEGIAC    PIECES. 

SluiU  Southey  feed  upon  your  precious  lore. 
To  works  that  ne'er  shall  forfeit  their  renown 
Adding  immortal  labors  of  his  own,  — 
Whether  he  traced  historic  truth,  with  zeal 
For  the  State's  guidance,  or  the  Chuix'h's  weal, 
Or  Fancy,  disciplined  by  studious  art, 
Informed  his  pen,  or  wisdom  of  the  heart, 
Or  judgments  sanctioned  in  the  Patriot's  mind 
By  reverence  for  the  rights  of  all  mankind- 
Wide  were  his  aims,  yet  in  no  human  breast 
Could  private  feelings  meet  for  holier  i-est. 
His  joys,  his  griefs,  have  vanished  like  a  cloud 
From  Skiddaw's  top  ;  but  he  to  heaven  was  vowed 
Through  his  industrious  life,  and  Christian  fiiitii 
Calmed  in  his  soul  the  fear  of  change  and  death. 


ODE. 


INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY    FROM    RECOL- 
LECTIONS   OF    EARLY    CHILDHOOD. 


The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

See  Vol.  I.  p.  187. 


There  wasatime  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stifcam 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 


II. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose  ; 
The  INIoon  doth  with  delight 

VOI^    V.  l.i 


178  ODE. 

Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

in. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 

A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  aorain  am  strong  : 
The  catai'acts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep  ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong  ; 
1  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng. 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday;  — 
Tliou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  liear  thy  shouts,  thou  hap- 
{)y  Sliepherd-boy ! 

IV. 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 


ODE.  179 

The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel,  I  feel  it  all. 

0  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  Children  are  culline: 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fi-esh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm  :  — 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  ! 

—  But  there  's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  hfe's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting. 
And  Cometh  from  afar : 

Not  in  entii-e  forgetfulness. 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 


180  ODE. 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

V- 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own  ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  ow*n  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim. 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

VII. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 


ODE.  181 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  ^usiness,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Fining  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  sta^ 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity  ; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 

Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest  ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find. 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 


1S2  ODE. 

A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  lieaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
"Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

IX. 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live. 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With    new-fledged    hdpe    still    fluttering    in    his 
breast: — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  tilings. 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realizpd, 
Hish  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 


ODE.  183 

Did  tremble  like  a  gwiltj  thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  aU  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence  :  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor. 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy. 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither. 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mightv  waters  rollingr  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song ! 
And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng. 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 


184  ODE. 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Thousrh  nothing  can  hring  back  the  hour 

o  o  o 

Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower  ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering  ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bruig  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI. 

And  O  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret. 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 
Anotiier  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
Tc  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

iso3-e 


NOTES. 


Page  36. 
''  The  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle." 
This  story  is  a  Cumberland  tradition.    I  have  heard  it  also 
related  of  the  Hall  of  Hutton  John,  an  ancient  residence  of  the 
Hudlestons,  in  a  sequestered  valley  upon  the  river  Dacor. 

Page  56. 
"  The  Russian  Fugitive." 
Peter  Henry  Bruce,  having  given  in  his  entertaining  Me- 
moirs the  substance  of  this  Tale,  affirms  that,  besides  the  con- 
curring reports  of  others,  he  had  the  story  from  the  lady's  own 
mouth. 

The  Lady  Catherine,  mentioned  towards  the  close,  is  the 
famous  Catherine,  then  beaiing  that  name  as  the  acknowl- 
edged wife  of  Peter  the  Great. 

Page  126. 
"  The  Farmer  of  Tilskiry  Vale." 

With  this  picture,  which  was  taken  from  real  life,  compare 
the  imaginative  one  of  "  The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,"  Vol.  H., 
p.  132;  and  see  (to  make  up  the  deficiencies  of  this  class) 
"  The  Excursion,"  passim. 

Page  159. 

"  Moss  Campion  ( Silene  acaulis)." 

Itiis  most  beautiful  plant  is  scarce  in  England,  though  it  is 
found  in  great  abundance  upon  the  mountains  of  Scotland 


186  NOTES. 

Tlie  first  specimen  I  ever  saw  of  it,  iu  its  native  bed,  was  sin- 
gularly fine,  the  tnrf  or  cushion  being  at  least  eight  inches  in 
diameter,  and  the  root  proportioiiably  thick.  I  have  only  met 
with  it  iu  two  places  among  our  mountains,  in  both  of  which 
I  have  since  sought  for  it  in  vain. 

Botanists  will  not,  I  hope,  take  it  ill,  if  I  caution  them 
against  carrying  off,  inconsiderately,  rare  and  beautiful  plants. 
This  has  often  been  done,  particularly  from  Ingleborough  and 
other  mountains  in  Yorkshire,  till  the  species  have  totally  dis- 
appeared, to  the  great  regi-et  of  lovers  of  nature  living  near 
the  places  where  the}'  grew. 

Page  169. 
^^  From  the  most  gentle  creature  nursed  in  Jlelda." 
This  way  of  indicating  the  name  of  my  lamented  friend  has 
been  found  fault  with;  perhaps  rightly  so;  but  I  may  say  in 
justification  of  the  double  sense  of  the  word,  that  similar  allu- 
sions are  not  uncommon  in  epitaphs.  One  of  the  best  in  our 
language  in  verse,  I  ever  read,  was  upon  a  person  who  bore 
the  name  of  Palmer;  and  the  course  of  the  thought,  through- 
out, turned  upon  the  Life  of  the  Departed,  considered  as  a 
pilgrimage.  Nor  can  I  think  that  the  objection  in  the  present 
case  will  have  much  force  with  any  one  who  remembers 
Charles  Lamb's  beautiful  sonnet  addressed  to  his  own  name, 
and  ending, 

"No  deed  of  mine  shall  shame  thee,  gentle  name!  " 

Page  175. 

Walter  Scott  .        .        .       died  21st  Sept.,  1832. 

S.  T.  Coleridge  ..."    25th  July,  1834. 

Charles  Lamb  ..."    27th  Dec,  1834. 

George  Crabbe  .        .        .      "      3d    Feb.,  1832. 

Felicia  Ilemana  ..."    16th  May,  1836. 


APPENDIX,   PREFACES, 

ETC.,  ETC. 


IMccH  the  gi-eatest  part  of  the  foregoing  Poems  has  been  so 
long  before  the  PubHc  that  no  prefatoiy  matter,  explanatory 
of  any  portion  of  them,  or  of  the  arrangement  which  has  been 
adopted,  appears  to  be  required;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
observations  contained  in  those  Prefaces  npon  the  principles 
of  Poetry  in  general,  they  would  not  have  been  reprinted  e\en 
as  an  Appendix  in  this  Edition. 


PREFACE 

rO  THE   SECOKD  EDITION  OF   SEVERAL  OF  THE   FOREOOIHG 

POE3IS,  PUBLISHED,  WITH  AN  ADDITIONAL  VOLCaiE, 

UNDER  THE  TITLE  OF  "  LYRICAL  BALLADS." 


jfote.  —  In  succeeding  Editions,  when  the  Collection  was 
much  enlarged  and  diversified,  this  Preface  was  transfen-ed 
to  the  end  of  the  Volumes,  as  having  Uttle  of  a  special  applica- 
tion to  their  contents. 


The  first  Volume  of  these  Poems  has  already 
been  submitted  to  general  perusal.  It  was  pub- 
lished  as  an  experiment,  which,  I  hoped,  might 
be  of  some  use,  to  ascertain  how  far,  by  fitting  to 
metrical  arrangement  a  selection  of  the  real  lan- 
guage of  men  in  a  state  of  vivid  sensation,  that 
sort  of  pleasure  and  that  quantity  of  pleasure  may 
be  imparted,  which  a  Poet  may  rationally  en- 
deavor to  impart. 

I  had  formed  no  very  inaccurate  estimate  of  the 
probable  effect  of  those  Poems :  I  flattered  my- 
self that  they  who  should  be  pleased  with  them 
would  read  them  with  more  than  common  pleas- 
ure ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  I  was  well  aware, 
*hat  by  those  who  should  dislike  them  they  would 
be  lead  with  more  than    common  dislike      The 


190       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

result  has  differed  from  my  expectation  in  this 
only,  that  a  greater  number  have  been  pleased 
.han  I  ventured  to  hope  I  should  please. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Several  of  my  Friends  are  anxious  for  the  suc- 
cess of  these  Poems,  from  a  belief,  that,  if  the 
views  with  which  they  were  composed  were  in- 
deed realized,  a  class  of  Poetry  would  be  pro- 
duced, well  adapted  to  interest  mankind  perma- 
nently, and  not  unimportant  in  the  quality,  and  in 
the  multiplicity  of  its  moral  relations  :  and  on  this 
account  they  have  advised  me  to  prefix  a  syste- 
matic defence  of  the  theory  upon  which  the  Po- 
ems were  written.  But  I  was  unwilling  to  under- 
take the  task,  knowing  that  on  this  occasion  the 
Reader  would  look  coldly  upon  my  arguments, 
since  I  might  be  suspected  of  having  been  princi- 
pally influenced  by  the  selfish  and  foolish  hope  of 
reasoning  him  into  an  approbation  of  these  par- 
ticular Poems  :  and  I  was  still  more  unwilling  to 
undertake  the  task,  because  adequately  to  display 
the  opinions,  and  fully  to  enforce  the  arguments, 
would  require  a  space  wholly  disproportionate  to 
a  preface.  For,  to  treat  the  subject  with  the 
clearness  and  coherence  of  which  it  is  susceptible, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  give  a  full  account  of  the 
|)resent  state  of  the  public  taste  in  this  country, 
and  to  deteimine  how  far  this  taste  is  healthy  or 
depraved;  which,  again,  could  not  be  determined, 
ivitliout  pointing  out  in    what  manner    language 


APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC.  191 

imd  the  human  mind  act.  and  react  on  each  other, 
and  without  retracing  the  revolutions,  not  of  liter 
ftture  alone,  but  likewise  of  society  itself.  I  have 
therefore  altogether  declined  to  enter  regularly 
upon  this  defence;  yet  I  am  sensible  that  there 
would  be  something. like  impropriety  in  abruptly 
obtruding  upon  the  Public,  without  a  few  words 
of  introduction.  Poems  so  materially  different  from 
those  upon  which  general  approbation  is  at  pres- 
ent bestowed. 

It  is   supposed,   that  by  the  act  of  writing  in 
verse  an  Author  makes  a  formal  engagement  that 
he  will  gratify  certain  known  habits  of  associa- 
tion ;    that  he  not  only  thus  apprises  the  Reader 
that  certain  classes  of  ideas  and  expressions  will 
be  found  in  his  book,  but  that  others  will  be  care- 
fully excluded.     This  exponent  or  symbol    held 
forth  by  metrical  language  must  in  different  eras 
of  literature  have  excited  very  different  expecta- 
tions:    for  example,  in  the  age  of  Catullus,  Te- 
rence, and  Lucretius,  and  that  of  Statins  or  Clau- 
dian ;    and  in  our  own    country,   in  the  age  of 
Shakespeare    and    Beaumont   and  Fletcher,  and 
that  of  Donne  and  Cowley,  or  Dryden,  or  Pope. 
I  will  not  take  upon  me  to  determine  the  exact 
import  of  the  promise  which,  by  the  act  of  writ- 
ing in  verse,  an  Author,  in  the  present  day,  raakea 
to  his  reader ;    but  it  will  undoubtedly  appear  to 
many  ])ersons  that  I  have  not  fulfilled  the  terras 
of  an    engagement   thus    voluntarily   contracted. 


192       APPENDIX,  PUEFaCES,  ETC. 

They  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  gaudiness 
and  inane  phraseology  of  many  modern  writers,  if 
they  persist  in  reading  this  book  to  its  conclusion, 
will,  no  doubt,  frequently  have  to  struggle  with 
feelings  of  strangeness  and  awkwardness :  they 
will  look  round  for  poetry,  and  will  be  induced  to 
inquire  by  what  species  of  courtesy  these  attempts 
can  be  permitted  to  assume  that  title.  I  hope, 
therefore,  the  reader  will  not  censure  me  for  at- 
tempting to  state  what  I  have  proposed  to  myself 
to  perform  ;  and  also  (as  far  as  the  limits  of  a 
preface  will  permit)  to  explain  some  of  the  chief 
reasons  which  have  determined  me  in  the  choice 
of  my  purpose :  that  at  least  he  may  be  spared 
any  unpleasant  feeling  of  disappointment,  and  that 
I  myself  may  be  protected  from  one  of  the  most 
dishonorable  accusations  which  can  be  brought 
against  an  Author ;  namely,  that  of  an  indolence 
which  prevents  him  from  endeavoring  to  ascertain 
wliat  is  his  duty,  or,  when  his  duty  is  ascertained, 
prevents  liim  from  performing  it. 

The  principal  object,  then,  proposed  in  these 
Poems,  was  to  choose  incidents  and  situations  from 
common  life,  and  to  relate  or  describe  them, 
throughout,  as  far  as  was  possible,  in  a  selection 
of  language  really  used  by  men,  and,  at  the  same  * 
time,  to  throw  over  them  a  certain  coloring  of  ini- 
ugination,  whereby  ordinary  things  shouM  be  pro 
*eiited  to  the  mind  in  an  unusual  aspect;  and, 
urther,  and  above  all,  to  make  these  incidents  and 


APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC  193 

situations  interesting  by  tracing  in  them,  truly 
though  not  ostentatiously,  the  primary  laws  of  our 
nature :  chiefly,  as  far  as  regards  the  manner  in 
which  we  associate  ideas  in  a  state  of  excitement. 
Humble  and  rustic  life  was  generally  chosen,  be- 
cause in  that  condition  the  essential  passions  ot 
the  heart  find  a  better  soil  in  which  they  can  at- 
tain their  maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and 
speak  a  plainer  and  more  emphatic  language ;  be- 
cause in  that  condition  of  life  our  elementary  feel- 
ings coexist  in  a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and, 
consequently,  may  be  more  accurately  contemplat- 
ed, and  more  forcibly  communicated  ;  because  the 
manners  of  rural  life  germinate  from  those  ele- 
mentary feelings,  and,  from  the  necessary  charac- 
ter of  rural  occupations,  are  more  easily  compre- 
hended, and  are  more  dui'able;  and,  lastly,  because 
in  that  condition  the  passions  of  men  are  incorpo- 
rated with  the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms  ot 
nature.  The  language,  too,  of  these  men  has  been 
adopted,  (purified  indeed  from  what  appear  to  be 
its  real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational  causes 
of  dislike  or  disgust,)  because  such  men  hourly 
communicate  with  the  best  objects  from  which  the 
best  part  of  language  is  originally  derived ;  and 
because,  from  their  rank  in  society  and  the  same- 
ness and  narrow  circle  of  their  intercourse,  being 
less  under  the  influence  of  social  vanity,  they  con- 
vey their  feelings  and  notions  in  simple  and  un- 
elaborated  expressions.     Accordingly,  such  a  Ian- 

VOL.   V.  13 


194       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

gnage,  arising  out  of  repeated  experience  and 
regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent,  and  a  tar 
more  philosophical  language,  than  that  which  is 
frequently  substituted  for  it  by  Poets,  who  think 
that  they  are  conferring  honor  upon  themselves 
and  tlicir  art,  in  proportion  as  they  separate 
tlieinselves  from  the  sympathies  of  men,  and  in- 
dulge in  arbitrary  and  capricious  habits  of  expres- 
sion, in  order  to  furnish  food  for  fickle  tastes,  and 
fickle  appetites,  of  their  own  creation.* 

I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  to  the  present 
outcry  against  the  triviality  and  meanness,  both 
of  thought  and  language,  which  some  of  my  con- 
temporaries have  occasionally  introduced  into 
their  metrical  compositions  ;  and  I  acknowledge 
tliat  this  defect,  where  it  exists,  is  more  dishonor- 
able to  the  Writer's  own  character  than  false  re- 
finement or  arbitrary  innovation,  though  I  should 
contend,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  far  less  perni- 
cious in  the  sum  of  its  consequences.  From  such 
verses  the  Poems  in  these  volumes  will  be  found 
distinguished  at  least  by  one  mark  of  difference, 
that  each  of  them  has  a  worthy  purpose.  Not 
tliat  T  always  began  to  write  with  a  distinct  pur- 
pose formally  conceived  ;  but  habits  of  meditation 
have,  I  trust,  so  prompted  and  regulated  my  feel- 


♦  It  is  worth  while  here  to  observe,  that  the  nflecting  parts 
of  Clinucor  nro  almost  always  expressed  in  language  pure  and 
nnivcr«!illy  intelligible  even  to  this  day. 


APPKNDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       195 

ings,  that  my  descriptions  of  such  objects  as 
strongly  excite  those  feelings  will  be  found  to  car- 
ry along  with  them  a  purpose.  If  this  opinion  be 
erroneous,  I  can  have  little  right  to  the  name  of  a 
Poet. ,  For  all  good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous 
overflow  of  powerful  feelings  :  and  though  this  be 
true,  Poems  to  which  any  value  can  be  attached 
were  never  produced  on  any  variety  of  subjects 
but  by  a  man  who,  being  possessed  of  more  than 
usual  organic  sensibility,  had  also  thought  long  and 
deeply.  For  our  continued  influxes  of  feeling  are 
modified  and  directed  by  our  thoughts,  which  are 
indeed  the  representatives  of  all  our  past  feelings; 
and  as,  by  contemplating  the  relation  of  these  gen- 
eral representatives  to  each  other,  we  discover 
what  is  really  important  to  men,  so,  by  the  repeti- 
tion and  continuance  of  this  act,  our  feelings  will 
be  connected  with  important  subjects,  till  at  length, 
if  we  be  originally  possessed  of  much  sensibility, 
such  habits  of  mind  will  be  produced,  that,  by 
obeying  blindly  and  mechanically  the  impulses  of 
those  habits,  we  shall  describe  objects,  and  utter 
sentiments,  of  such  a  nature,  and  in  such  connec- 
tion with  each  other,  that  the  understanding  of  the 
Reader  must  necessarily  be  in  some  degree  en- 
lightened, and  his  affections  strengthened  and  pu- 
rified. 

It  has  been  said  that  each  of  these  Poems  has  a 
purpose.  Another  circumstance  must  be  men- 
tioned which  distinguishes  these  Poems  frfim  the 


196       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

popular  Poetry  of  the  day  ;  it  is  this,  tliat  the  feel- 
ing therein  developed  gives  importance  to  the  ac- 
tion and  situation,  and  not  the  action  and  situation 
to  the  feeling. 

A  sense  of  false  modesty  shall  not  prevent  me 
from  asserting,  that  the  Reader's  attention  is 
pointed  to  this  mark  of  distinction,  far  less  for  the 
sake  of  these  particular  Poems  than  from  the  gen- 
eral im{)ortance  of  the  subject.  The  subject  is 
indeed  important!  For  the  human  mind  is  capa- 
ble of  being  excited  without  the  application  of 
gross  and  violent  stimulants  ;  and  he  must  have  a 
very  faint  perception  of  its  beauty  and  dignity 
who  docs  not  know  this,  and  who  does  not  further 
know,  that  one  being  is  elevated  above  another 
in  proportion  as  he  possesses  this  ca[)al)ility.  It 
has  therefore  appeared  to  me,  that  to  endeavor  to 
produce  or  enlarge  this  capability  is  one  of  the 
best  ser\-ioes  in  which,  at  any  period,  a  Writer  can 
be  engaged ;  but  this  service,  excellent  at  all 
times,  is  '^specially  so  at  the  present  day.  For  a 
multitude  of  causes,  unknown  to  former  times,  are 
now  acting  with  a  combined  force  to  blunt  the  dis- 
criininatiiig  powers  of  the  mind,  and,  unfitting  it 
for  all  voluntary  exertion,  to  reduce  it  to  a  state 
of  almost  savage  torpor.  The  most  effective  of 
these  causes  are  the  great  national  events  which 
are  daily  taking  place,  and  the  increasing  accumu- 
lation fiC  iiicii  ill  cities,  where  the  uniformity  of 
lieir  occupations  produces  a  craving  for  extraor- 


APPENDIX,  PKEFAGES,  ETC.       197 

iinaiy  incident,  which  the  rapid  communication 
of  intelligence  hourly  gratifies.  To  this  tendency 
of  life  and  manners  the  literature  and  theatrica. 
exhibitions  of  the  country  have  conformed  them- 
selves. The  invaluable^  works  of  our  elder  writ- 
ers, I  had  almost  said  the  works  of  Shakespeare 
and  Milton,  are  driven  into  neglect  by  frantic 
novels,  sickly  and  stupid  German  Tragedies,  and 
deluges  of  idle  and  extravagant  stories  in  verse. 
When  I  think  upon  this  degrading  thirst  after 
outrageous  stimulation,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to 
have  spoken  of  the  feeble  endeavor  made  in  these 
volumes  to  counteract  it;  and,  reflecting  upon  the 
magnitude  of  the  general  evil,  I  should  be  op- 
pressed with  no  dishonorable  melancholy,  had  I 
not  a  deep  impression  of  certain  inherent  and  in- 
destructible qualities  of  the  human  mind,  and  like- 
wise of  certain  powers  in  the  great  and  permanent 
objects  that  act  upon  it,  which  are  equally  inher- 
ent and  indestructible  ;  and  were  there  not  added 
to  this  impression  a  belief,  that  the  time  is  ap- 
proaching when  the  evil  will  be  systematically 
opposed,  by  men  of  greater  powers,  and  with  far 
more  distinguished  success. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects  and  aim 
of  these  Poems,  I  shall  request  the  Reader's  per- 
mission to  apprise  him  of  a  few  circumstances  re- 
lating to  their  stijle,  in  order,  among  other  reasons, 
that  he  may  not  censure  me  for  not  having  per- 
formed  what   T   never  attempted.     The   Reader 


198       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

will  fiinl  that  personifications  of  abstract  ideas 
rarely  occur  in  tliese  volumes;  and  are  utterly 
rejected,  as  an  ordinary  device  to  elbvate  the 
style,  and  raise  it  above  prose.  INIy  purpose  was 
to  imitate,  and,  as  far  as  is  possible,  to  adopt  the 
veiy  language  of  men  ;  and  assuredly  such  per- 
sonifications do  not  make  any  natural  or  regular 
part  of  that  language.  They  are,  indeed,  a  figure 
of  speech  occasionally  prompted  by  passion,  and  I 
have  made  use  of  them  as  such ;  but  have  en- 
deavored utterly  to  reject  them  as  a  mechanical 
device  of  style,  or  as  a  family  language  which 
Writers  in  metre  seem  to  lay  claim  to  by  pre- 
scription. I  have  wished  to  keep  the  Reader  in 
the  company  of  flesh  and  blood,  persuaded  that  by 
so  doing  I  shall  interest  him.  Others  who  pursue 
a  different  track  will  intei'est  him  likewise ;  I  do 
not  interfere  with  their  claim,  but  wish  to  prefer  a 
claim  of  my  own.  There  will  also  be  found  in 
these  volumes  little  of  what  is  usually  called  po- 
etic diction  ;  as  much  pains  has  been  taken  to 
avoid  it  as  is  ordinarily  taken  to  produce  it;  this 
has  been  done  for  the  reason  already  alleged,  to 
bring  my  language  near  to  the  language  of  men ; 
and  further,  because  the  pleasure  which  I  have 
proposed  to  myself  to  impart,  is  of  a  kind  very 
diflferent  from  that  which  is  supposed  by  many 
persons  to  be  tlie  proper  object  of  poetry.  With- 
out being  culpably  particular,  I  do  not  know  how 
'.o   give    my    Keader  a  more  exact  notion  of  the 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC        109 

Btyle  in  which  it  was  my  wish  and  intention  to 
write,  than  by  informing  him  that  I  have  at  all 
times  endeavored  to  look  steadily  at  my  subject ; 
consequently,  there  is,  I  hope,  in  these  Poems, 
little  falsehood  of  description,  and  my  ideas  are 
expressed  in  language  fitted  to  their  respective 
importance.  Something  must  have  been  gained 
by  this  practice,  as  it  is  friendly  to  one  property  of 
all  good  poetry,  namely,  good  sense  :  but  it  has 
necessarily  cut  me  off  from  a  large  portion  of 
phrases  and  figures  of  speech  which  from  father 
to  son  have  long  been  regarded  as  the  common 
inheritance  of  Poets.  I  have  also  thought  it  ex- 
pedient to  restrict  myself  still  further,  having 
abstained  from  the  use  of  many  expressions,  in 
themselves  proper  and  beautiful,  but  which  have 
been  foolishly  repeated  by  bad  Poets,  till  such 
feelings  of  disgust  are  connected  with  them  as  it 
is  scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of  association  to 
overpower. 

If  in  a  poem  there  should  be  found  a  series  of 
lines,  or  even  a  single  line,  in  which  the  language, 
though  naturally  arranged,  and  according  to  the 
strict  laws  of  metre,  does  not  differ  from  that  of 
prose,  there  is  a  numerous  class  of  critics,  who, 
when  they  stumble  upon  these  prosaisms,  as  they 
call  them,  imagine  that  they  have  made  a  notable 
discovery,  and  exult  over  the  Poet  as  over  a  man 
ignorant  of  his  own  profession.  Now  these  men 
would   establish   a   canon  of  criticism   whirli  the 


200       APPENDIX,  PHKFACES,  ETC. 

Reader  will  conclude  he  must  utterly  reject,  if  he 
wishes  to  be  pleased  with  these  volumes.  And  it 
would  be  a  most  easy  task  to  prove  to  him,  that 
not  only  the  language  of  a  large  portion  of  every 
good  poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated  character, 
must  necessarily,  except  with  reference  to  the  me- 
tre, in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good  jDrose, 
but  likewise  that  some  of  the  most  interesting 
parts  of  the  best  poems  will  be  found  to  be  strictly 
the  language  of  prose  when  prose  is  well  written. 
The  truth  of  this  assertion  might  be  demonstrated 
b}'  innumerable  passages  from  almost  all  the  poet- 
ical writings,  even  of  Milton  himself.  To  illus- 
trate the  subject  in  a  geneial  manner,  I  will  here 
adduce  a  short  composition  of  Gray,  who  was  at 
the  head  of  those  who,  by  their  reasonings,  have 
attempted  to  widen  the  space  of  separation  be- 
twixt Prose  and  Metrical  composition,  and  was 
more  than  any  other  man  curiously  elaborate  in 
the  structure  of  his  own  poetic  diction. 

"  In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 
And  reddening  Plioebus  lifts  liis  golden  fire: 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  gi-een  attire. 
These  eare,  alas!  for  other  notes  repine; 
A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require ; 
My  lonely  nnc/uish  melts  no  heart  but  mine ; 
Aiul  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  exjnre; 
Yet  nioriiing  smiles  the  busj'  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  met]; 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear; 
To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 
Jfruitlts*  mourn  lo  him  that  laniKit  hear, 
And  weeji  the  more  because  1  weep  in  vain.''^ 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       201 

It  will  easily  be  perceived,  that  the  only  part  of 
.his  Sonnet  which  is  of  any  value  is  the  lines 
printed  in  Italics ;  it  is  equally  obvious,  that,  ex- 
cept in  the  rhyme,  and  in  the  use  of  the  single 
word  "  fruitless  "  for  fruitlessly,  which  is  so  far  a 
defect,  the  language  of  these  lines  does  in  no  re- 
spect differ  from  that  of  prose. 

By  the  foregoing  quotation  it  has  been  shown 
that  the  language  of  Prose  may  yet  be  well 
adapted  to  Poetry  ;  and  it  was  previously  asserted, 
that  a  large  portion  of  the  language  of  every  good 
poem  can  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  good 
Prose.  We  will  go  further.  It  may  be  safely 
affirmed,  that  there  neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any 
essential  difference  between  the  language  of  prose 
and  metrical  composition.  We  are  fond  of  tracing 
the  resemblance  between  Poetry  and  Painting, 
and,  accordingly,  we  call  tliem  Sisters:  but  where 
shall  we  find  bonds  of  connection  sufficiently  strict 
to  typify  the  affinity  betwixt  metrical  and  prose 
composition?  They  both  speak  by  and  to  the 
same  organs  ;  the  bodies  in  which  both  of  them 
are  clothed  may  be  said  to  be  of  the  same  sub- 
stance, their  affections  are  kindred,  and  almost 
identical,  not  necessarily  differing  even  in  degree; 
Poetry  *  sheds  no  tears  "  such  as  Angels  weep," 

*  I  here  use  the  word  "  Poetry"  (though  against  my  own 
jadgment)  as  opposed  to  the  word  Prose,  and  synonymous 
with  metrical  composition.  But  much  confusion  hiis  been  in 
trodu  ;ed  into  criticism  by  this   contradistinction   of  Poetry 


202  APPENDIX,    PKEFACES,    ETC. 

bat  natural  and  liuraan  tears  ;  slie  can  boast  of  no 
celestial  ichor  that  distinguishes  her  vital  juices 
from  those  of  Prose  ;  the  same  human  blood  cir- 
culates through  the  veins  of  thera  both. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rhyme  and  metrical  ar- 
rangement of  themselves  constitute  a  distinction 
which  overturns  what  has  just  been  said  on  the 
strict  affinity  of  metrical  language  with  that  of 
prose,  and  paves  the  way  for  other  artificial  dis- 
tinctions which  the  mind  voluntarily  admits,  1  an- 
swer that  the  language  oP  such  Poetry  as  is  here 
recommended  is,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a  selection 
of  the  language  really  spoken  by  men;  that  this 
selection,  wherever  it  is  made  with  true  taste  and 
'eeling,  will  of  itself  form  a  distinction  far  greater 
than  would  at  first  be  imagined,  and  will  entirely 
separate  the  composition  from  tlie  vulgarity  and 
meanness  of  ordinary  life;  and  if  metre  be  super- 
added tliereto,  I  believe  that  a  dissimilitude  will 
be  produced  altogether  sufficient  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  a  rational  mind.  What  other  distinction 
would  we  have?  Whence  is  it  to  come?  And 
where  is  it  to  exist  ?  Not,  surely,  where  the 
Poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  characters  : 
it  cannot  be  necessary  here,  either  for  elevation  of 

ind  Prose,  instead  of  the  more  pliilosophical  one  of  Poetry 
iind  Mutter  of  Fact,  or  Science.  Tlie  only  strict  antitiiesis  to 
Prose  is  Metre;  nor  is  this,  in  tmth,  n^/jici  antithesis,  because 
lines  ind  passages  of  metre  so  naturally  occur  in  writing 
prose^  tiiat  it  would  be  scarcely  possible  to  avoid  them,  even 
were  it  desirable. 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       203 

ktyle,  OX'  any  of  its  supposed  ornaments  :  for,  if 
the  Poet's  subject  be  judiciously  chosen,  it  will 
naturally,  and  upon  fit  occasion,  lead  hiui  to  pas- 
sions, the  language  of  which,  if  selected  truly  and 
judiciously,  must  necessarily  be  dignified  and  va- 
riegated, and  alive  with  metaphors  and  figures. 
I  forbear  to  speak  of  an  incongruity  which  would 
shock  the  intelligent  Reader,  should  the  Poet  in- 
terweave any  foreign  splendor  of  his  own  with 
that  which  the  passion  naturally  suggests :  it  is 
sufficient  to  say  that  such  addition  is  unnecessary. 
And,  surely,  it  is  more  proljable  that  those  pas- 
sages, which  with  propriety  abound  with  meta- 
phors and  figures,  wnll  have  their  due  eflTect,  if, 
upon  other  occasions  where  the  passions  are  of  a 
milder  character,  the  style  also  be  subdued  and 
temperate. 

But,  as  the  pleasure  which  I  hope  to  give  by 
the  Poems  now  presented  to  the  Reader  must 
depend  entirely  on  just  notions  upon  this  subject, 
and  as  it  is  in  itself  of  high  importance  to  our 
taste  and  moral  feelings,  I  cannot  content  myself 
with  these  detached  remarks.  And  if,  in  what  I 
am  about  to  say,  it  shall  appear  to  some  that  ray 
labor  is  unnecessary,  and  that  I  am  like  a  man 
fighting  a  battle  without  enemies,  such  persons 
may  be  reminded,  that,  whatever  be  the  language 
outwardly  holden  by  men,  a  practical  fiiith  in  the 
opinions  which  I  am  wishing  to  establish  is  almost 
anknown.     If  my  conclusions  are  admitted,  and 


204       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  KTC. 

carried  as  far  as  they  must  be  carried  if  admitted 
at  all,  our  judgments  concerning  the  works  of  the 
greatest  Poets,  both  ancient  and  modern,  will  be 
far  ditft-rent  from  what  they  are  at  present,  both 
when  we  praise  and  when  we  censure ;  and  our 
moral  feelings  influencing  and  influenced  by  these 
judgments  will,  I  believe,  be  corrected  and  purified. 
Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  general 
grounds,  let  me  ask.  What  is  meant  by  the  word 
Poet  ?  What  is  a  Poet  ?  To  whom  does  he  ad- 
dress himself?  And  what  language  is  to  be 
expected  from  him  ?  —  He  is  a  man  speaking  to 
men  :  a  man,  it  is  true,  endowed  with  more  lively 
sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tendei'ness,  who 
has  a  greater  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  a 
more  comprehensive  soul,  than  are  supposed  to  be 
common  among  mankind;  a  man  pleased  witli  his 
own  passions  and  volitions,  and  who  rejoices  more 
than  other  men  in  the  spirit  of  life  that  is  in  him  ; 
delighting  to  contemplate  similar  volitions  and 
passions  as  manifested  in  the  goings-on  of  tlie 
Universe,  and  habitually  impelled  to  create  them 
wlicre  he  does  not  find  them.  To  these  qualities 
he  lias  added  a  disposition  to  be  affected  more 
than  other  men  by  absent  things  as  if  they  were 
present ;  an  ability  of  conjuring  up  in  liiinself 
passions,  which  are  indeed  far  fiom  being  the 
same  as  those  produced  by  real  events,  yet  (es- 
pecially in  those  parts  of  the  genei'al  sympathy 
vhicli  are  pleasing  and  delightful)  do  more  nearly 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       205 

resemble  the  passions  produced  by  real  events, 
than  anything  which,  from  the  motions  of  the'.r 
own  minds  merely,  other  men  are  accustomed  to 
feel  in  themselves  :  —  whence,  and  from  practice, 
he  has  acquired  a  greater  readiness  and  power  in 
expressing  what  he  tliinks  and  feels,  and  especial- 
ly those  thoughts  and  feelings  which,  by  his  own 
choice,  or  from  the  structure  of  his  own  mind, 
arise  in  him  without  immediate  external  excite- 
ment. 

But  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  we  may 
suppose  even  the  greatest  Poet  to  possess,  there 
cannot  be  a  doubt  that  the  language  which  it  will 
suscsrest  to  him  must  often,  in  liveliness  and  truth, 
fall  short  of  that  which  is  uttered  by  men  in  real 
life,  under  the  actual  pressure  of  those  passions, 
certain  sliadovvs  of  which  the  Poet  thus  produces, 
or  feels  to  be  produced,  in  himself. 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  wish  to  cher- 
ish of  the  character  of  a  Poet,  it  is  obvious,  that, 
while  he  describes  and  imitates  passions,  his  em- 
ployment is  in  some  degree  mechanical,  compared 
with  the  freedom  and  power  of  real  and  substan- 
tial action  and  suffering.  So  that  it  wiU  be  the 
wish  of  the  Poet  to  bring  his  feelings  near  to 
those  of  the  persons  whose '  feelings  he  describes, 
nay,  for  short  spaces  of  time,  perhaps,  to  let  him- 
self slip  into  an  entire  delusion,  and  even  confound 
and  identify  his  own  feelings  with  theirs;  modify- 
ing only  the  language  which  is  thus  suggested  to 


206  APPENDIX,    ritlCFACES,    ETC. 

him  by  a  consideration  that  he  describes  foi  a  par- 
ticular purpose,  that  of  giving  pleasure.  Here, 
then,  he  will  apply  the  pi-inciple  of  selection  which 
has  been  already  insisted  upon.  He  will  depend 
upon  this  for  removing  what  would  otherwise  be 
painful  or  disgusting  in  the  passion  ;  he  will  feel 
that  there  is  no  necessity  to  trick  out  or  to  elevate 
nature:  and,  the  more  industriously  he  applies 
this  principle,  the  deeper  will  be  his  faith  that  no 
Avords,  which  his  fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest, 
will  be  to  be  compared  with  those  which  are  the 
emanations  of  reality  and  truth. 

But  it  may  be  said  by  those  who  do  not  object 
to  the  general  spirit  of  these  remarks,  that,  as  it  is 
impossible  for  the  Poet  to  ])roduce  upon  all  occa- 
sions language  as  exquisitely  fitted  for  the  passion 
as  that  which  the  real  passion  itself  suggests,  it  is 
proper  that  he  should  consider  himself  as  in  the 
situation  of  a  translator,  who  does  not  scruple  to 
substitute  excellences  of  another  kind  for  those 
which  are  unattainable  by  him ;  and  endeavors 
occasionally  to  surpass  his  original,  in  order  to  make 
some  amends  for  the  general  infiu-iority  to  whidi 
he  feels  that  he  must  submit.  But  this  would  be 
to  encourage  idleness  and  unmaidy  despair.  Fur- 
ther, it  is  the  language  of  men  who  speak  of  what 
Ijicy  do  not  understand;  Avho  talk  of  Poetry  as  of 
a  matter  of  amusement  and  idle  pleasui'e  ;  who 
will  converse  with  us  as  gravely  about  a  (as/r  \'nr 
PiMilry,  as  they  express  it,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  as 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC       207 

indifferent  as  a  taste  for  rope-dancing,  or  Fron- 
tiniac,  or  Sherry.  Aristotle,  I  have  been  told,  has 
said,  that  Poetry  is  the  most  philosophic  of  all 
writing.  It  is  so  :  its  object  is  truth,  not  individual 
and  local,  but  general,  and  operative  ;  not  standing 
upon  external  testimony,  but  carried  alive  into 
the  heart  by  passion  ;  truth  which  is  its  OAvn  tes- 
timony, which  gives  competence  and  confidence 
to  the  tribunal  to  which  it  appeals,  and  receives 
them  from  the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is  the  im- 
age of  man  and  nature.  The  obstacles  which 
stand  in  the  way  of  the  fideUty  of  the  Biographer 
and  Historian,  and  of  their  consequent  utility,  are 
incalculably  greater  than  those  which  are  to  be 
encountered  by  the  Poet  who  comprehends  the 
dignity  of  his  art.  The  Poet  writes  under  one  re- 
striction only,  namely,  the  necessity  of  giving  im- 
mediate pleasure  to  a  human  Being  possessed  of 
that  information  which  may  be  expected  from  him, 
not  as  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a  mariner,  an  astron- 
omer, or  a  natural  philosopher,  but  as  a  Man. 
Except  this  one  restriction,  there  is  no  object 
standing  between  the  Poet  and  the  image  of 
things  ;  between  this,  and  the  Biographer  and 
Historian,  there  are  a  thousand. 

Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immediate 
pleasure  be  considered  as  a  degradation  of  the 
Poet's  art.  It  is  far  otherwise.  It  is  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  beauty  of  the  universe,  an 
acknowledgment  the  more  sincere,   because  not 


208  APPENDIX,    1  REFAUES,    ETC. 

formal,  but  iiulirect ;  it  is  a  task  light  and  easy  to 
liim  who  looks  at  the  world  in  the  spirit  of  love  : 
further,  it  is  a  homage  paid  to  the  native  and  na- 
ked dignity  of  man,  to  the  grand  elementary  prin- 
ciple of  pleasure,  by  which  he  knows,  and  feels, 
and  lives,  and  moves.  We  have  no  sympathy  but 
what  is  propagated  by  pleasure :  I  would  not  be 
misunderstood ;  but  wherever  we  sympathize  with 
pain,  it  will  be  found  that  the  sympathy  is  pro- 
duced and  carried  on  by  subtle  combinations  with 
pleasure.  We  have  no  knowledge,  that  is,  no 
general  principles  drawn  from  the  contemplation 
of  particular  facts,  but  what  has  been  built  up  by 
pleasure,  and  exists  in  us  by  [)leasure  alone.  The 
Man  of  science,  the  Chemist  and  Mathematician, 
whatever  difficulties  and  disgusts  they  may  have 
had  to  struggle  with,  know  and  feel  this.  How- 
ever painful  may  be  the  objects  with  which  the 
Anatomist's  knowledge  is  connected,  he  feels  that 
his  knowledge  is  pleasure  ;  and  where  he  has  no 
pleasure,  he  has  no  knowledge.  What  then  does 
the  Poet?  He  considers  man  and  the  objects 
Vhat  surround  him  as  acting  and  reacting  upon 
each  other,  so  as  to  produce  an  infinite  complexity 
of  pain  and  pleasure  ;  he  considers  man  in  his  own 
nature  and  in  his  ordinary  life  as  contemplating 
this  with  a  certain  quantity  of  immediate  knowl- 
edge, with  certain  convictions,  intuitions,  and  de- 
ductions, whi(;h  from  habit  acquire  the  quality  of 
•ntuitions  ;  he  considers  him  as  looking  upon  (his 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       2U9 

complex  scene  of  ideas  and  sensations,  and  finding 
evei-jvvhere  objects  that  immediately  excite  in 
him  sympathies  which,  from  the  necessities  of  his 
nature,  are  accompanied  by  an  overbalance  of 
enjoyment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry  about 
with   them,  and   to  these   sympathies,  in   which, 
without  any  other  discipline  than  that  of  our  daily 
life,  we  are  fitted  to  take  delight,  the  Poet  princi- 
pally directs  his  attention.     He  considers  man  and 
nature  as  essentially  adapted  to  each  other,  and 
the  mind  of  man  as  naturally  the  mirror  of  the 
fairest  and  most  interesting  properties  of  nature. 
And  thus  the  Poet,  prompted  by  this  feeling  of 
pleasure,    which    accompanies    him    through    the 
whole  course  of  his  studies,  converses  with  gen- 
eral nature,  with  affections  akin  to  those  which, 
through  labor  and  length  of  time,  the  Man  of  sci- 
ence has  raised  up  in  himself,  by  conversing  with 
those  particular  parts  of  nature  which  are  the  ob- 
jects of  his  studies.     The  knowledge  both  of  the 
Poet  and  the  Man  of  science  is  pleasure  ;  but  tlie 
knowledge  of  the  one  cleaves  to  us  as  a  necessary 
part  of  our  existence,  our  natui'al  and  unalienable 
inheritance ;  the  other  is  a  personal  and  individ- 
ual acquisition,  slow  to  come  to  us,  and  by.no  ha- 
bitual and  direct  sympathy  connecting  us  with  our 
fellow-beings.      The  INIan  of  science  seeks  truth 
as  a  remote  and  unknown  benefactor ;  he  cher- 
ishes and  loves  it  in  his  solitude :  the  Poet,  sing- 

■VOL.   V.  14 


210  APPKNDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

inn;  a  soiifj  in  wliicli  all  liuman  beincrs  ioin  with 
him,  rejoices  in  the  presence  of  truth  as  our  visi- 
ble friend  and  hourly  companion.  Poetry  is  the 
breath  and  finer  sjjirit  of  all  knowledge ;  it  is  the 
impassioned  expression  which  is  in  the  counte- 
nance of  all  Science.  Emphatically  may  it  be 
said  of  the  Poet,  as  Shakesjieare  hath  said  of  man, 
"  that  he  looks  before  and  after."  lie  is  the  rock 
of  defence  for  human  nature  ;  an  upholder  and 
preserver,  carrying  everywhere  witli  him  relation- 
ship and  love.  In  spite  of  difference  of  soil  and 
climate,  of  language  and  manners,  of  laws  and 
customs,  —  in  spite  of  things  silently  gone  out  of 
mind,  and  things  violently  destroyed,  —  the  Poet 
binds  together  by  passion  and  knowledge  the  vast 
empire  of  human  society,  as  it  is  spread  over  the 
whole  earth,  and  over  all  time.  The  ol)jects  of 
the  Poet's  thoughts  are  everywhere  ;  though  the 
eyes  and  senses  of  man  are,  it  is  true,  his  favorite 
guides,  yet  he  will  follow  wheresoever  he  can  find 
an  atmosphere  of  sensation  in  which  to  move  his 
wings.  Poetry  is  the  first  and  last  of  all  knowl- 
edge, —  it  is  as  immortal  as  the  heart  of  man.  If 
the  labors  of  Men  of  science  should  ever  create 
any  material  revolution,  direct  or  indirect,  in  our 
condition,  and  in  the  impressions  which  we  habit- 
ually receive,  the  Poet  will  sleep  then  no  mora 
than  at  present  ;  he  will  be  ready  to  follow  the 
steps  of  the  ISIan  of  science,  not  only  in  tiiosegen- 
Kral  indirect  elTc'cts,  but  he  will  be  at  his  side,  car- 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       211 

pying  sensation  into  the  midst  of  the  objects  of  the 
pcience  itself.  The  remotest  discoveries  of  the 
Chemist,  the  Botanist,  or  Mineralogist,  will  be  as 
proper  objects  of  the  Poet's  art  as  any  upon 
which  it  can  be  employed,  if  the  time  should  ever 
come  when  these  things  shall  be  familiar  to  us. 
and  the  relations  under  which  they  are  contem- 
plated by  the  followers  of  these  respective  sci- 
ences shall  be  manifestly  and  palpably  material  to 
us  as  enjoying  and  suffering  beings.  If  the  time 
should  ever  come  when  what  is  now  called  science, 
thus  familiarized  to  men,  shall  be  ready  to  put  on, 
as  it  were,  a  form  of  flesh  and  blood,  the  Poet 
will  lend  his  divine  spirit  to  aid  the  transfigura- 
tion, and  will  welcome  the  being  thus  produced. 
as  a  dear  and  genuine  iirmate  of  the  household  of 
man.  —  It  is  not,  then,  to  be  supposed  that  any 
one,  who  holds  that  sublime  notion  of  Poetry 
which  I  have  attempted  to  convey,  will  break  in 
upon  the  sanctity  and  truth  of  his  pictures  by 
transitory  and  accidental  ornaments,  and  endeavor 
to  excite  admiration  of  himself  by  arts,  the  ne- 
cessity of  which  must  manifestly  depend  upon  the 
assumed  meanness  of  his  subject. 

What  has  been  thus  far  said  applies  to  Poetry 
in  general ;  but  especially  to  those  parts  of  com- 
position where  the  Poet  speaks  through  the 
mouths  of  his  characters ;  and  upon  this  point  it 
appears  to  authorize  the  conclusion,  that  there  are 
fi  vv  persons  of  good  sense,  who  would  not  allow 


212  APi'EXDlX,    PKEFACES,    ETG 

that  the  dramatic  parts  of  compo>ition  are  defee- 
live,  ill  proportion  as  they  deviate  from  the  real 
language  of  nature,  and  are  colored  by  a  diction  of 
the  Pcet's  own,  either  peculiar  to  him  as  an  indi- 
vidual Poet  or  belonging  simply  to  Poets  in  gener- 
al;  to  a  body  of  men  who,  from  the  circumstance 
of  their  compositions  being  in  metre,  it  is  expected 
will  employ  a  particular  language. 

It  is  not,  then,  in  the  dramatic  parts  of  compo- 
sition that  we  look  for  this  distinction  of  lan- 
guage ;  but  still  it  may  be  proper  and  necessary 
where  the  Poet  speaks  to  us  in  his  own  person 
and  character.  To  this  I  answer  by  referring  the 
Reader  to  the  description  before  given  of  a  Poet. 
Among  the  qualities  there  enumerated  as  princi- 
pally conducing  to  form  a  Poet,  is  implied  noth- 
ing differing  in  kind  from  other  men,  but  only  in 
degree.  The  sum  of  what  was  said  is,  that  the 
Poet  is  chiefly  distinguished  from  other  men  by  a 
greater  promptness  to  think  and  feel  without  im- 
mediate external  excitement,  and  a  greater  power 
in  expressing  such  thoughts  and  feelings  as  are 
produced  in  him  in  that  manner.  But  these  pas- 
sions and  thouglits  and  leelings  are  the  general 
passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings  of  men.  And 
with  what  are  they  connected  ?  Undoubtedly 
with  our  moral  sentiments  and  animal  sensations, 
and  with  the  causes  which  excite  these  ;  with  the 
operations  of  the  elements,  and  the  appearances 
if  the  visible  universe  ;   \vi[h  storm  and  sunshine, 


APl'ENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC  213 

»pith  the  revolutions  of  the  seasons,  with  cold  and 
neat,  with  loss  of  friends  and  kindred,  with  inju- 
ries  and   resentments,  gratitude   and   hope,  with 
fear  and  sorrow.     These,  and  the  like,   are  the 
sensations  and  objects  which  the  Poet  describes, 
as  they  are  the  sensations  of  other  men,  and  the 
objects  which  interest  them.     The   Poet  thinks 
and  feels  in  the  spirit  of  human  passions.     How, 
then,  can  his  language  differ  in  any  material  de- 
gree from  that  of  all  other  men  who  feel  vividly 
and  see  clearly  ?     It  might  be  proved  that  it  is  im- 
possible.    But  supposing  that  this  were  not  the 
case,  the  Poet  might  then  be  allowed  to  use  a  pe- 
culiar language  when  expressing  his  feelings  for 
his  own  gratification,  or  that  of  men  like  himself 
But  Poets  do  not  write  for  Poets  alone,  but  for 
men.     Unless,  therefore,  we  are  advocates  for  that 
admiration  which  subsists  upon  ignorance,  and  that 
pleasure  which  arises  from  hearing  what  we  do 
not  understand,  the  Poet  must  descend  from  this 
supposed  height ;  and,  in  order  to  excite  rational 
sympathy,  he  must  express  himself  as  other  men 
express  themselves.     To  this  it  may  be  added, 
that  while  he  is  only  selecting  from  the  real  lan- 
guage of  men,  or,  which  amounts  to   the   same 
thing,  composing  accurately  in  the  spirit  of  such 
selection,  he  is  treading  upon  safe  ground,  and  we 
know  what  we  are  to  expect  from  him.     Our  foel- 
uigs  are  the  same  with  respect  to  metre ;  for,  as 
it  may  be  proper  to  remind  the  Reader,  the  dis- 


214       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

tinction  of  metre  is  regular  and  uniform,  and  not, 
like  that  which  is  produced  by  what  is  usually 
called  POETIC  DICTION,  arbitrary,  and  subject  to 
infinite  caprices  upon  which  no  calculation  what- 
ever can  be  made.  In  the  one  case,  the  Reader 
is  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  Poet,  respecting 
what  imagery  or  diction  he  may  choose  to  connect 
with  the  passion  ;  whereas,  in  the  other,  the  metre 
obeys  certain  laws,  to  which  the  Poet  and  Reader 
both  willingly  submit,  because  they  are  certain, 
and  because  no  interference  is  made  by  them  with 
the  passion,  but  such  as  the  concurring  testimony 
of  ages  has  shown  to  heighten  and  improve  the 
pleasuie  which  coexists  with  it. 

It  will  now  be  proper  to  answer  an  obvious 
question,  namely,  Why,  professing  these  opinions, 
have  I  written  in  verse  ?  To  this,  in  addition  to 
such  answer  as  is  included  in  what  has  been  al- 
ready said,  I  reply,  in  the  first  place.  Because, 
however  I  may  have  restricted  myself,  there  is 
still  left  open  to  me  what  confessedly  constitutes 
the  most  valuable  object  of  all  writing,  whether 
in  prose  or  verse ;  the  great  and  universal  pas- 
sions of  men,  the  most  general  and  interesting 
of  th(Mr  occupations,  and  the  entire  world  of  na- 
ture before  me,  to  supply  endless  combinations 
of  forms  and  imagery.  Now,  supposing  for  a 
nionicnt  that  whatever  is  interesting  in  these  ob- 
ject >:  may  bo  as  vividly  described  in  prose,  why 
filinuld  I  be  condiMuned  for  attempting  to  super- 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       215 

add  to  such  description  the  charm  which,  by  the 
consent  of  all  nations,  is  acknowledged  to  exist  in 
metrical  language  ?  To  this,  by  such  as  are  yet 
unconvinced,  it  may  be  answered,  that  a  very 
small  part  of  the  pleasure  given  by  Poetry  de- 
pends upon  the  metre,  and  that  it  is  injudicious  to 
write  in  metre,  unless  it  be  accompanied  with  the 
other  artificial  distinctions  of  style  with  which 
metre  is  usually  accompanied,  and  that,  by  such 
deviation,  more  will  be  lost  from  the  shock  which 
will  thereby  be  given  to  the  Reader's  associations 
than  will  be  counterbalanced  by  any  pleasure 
which  he  can  derive  from  the  general  power  of 
numbers.  In  answer  to  those  who  still  contend 
for  the  necessity  of  accompanying  metre  with  cer- 
tain appropriate  colors  of  style  in  order  to  the 
accomplishment  of  its  appropriate  end,  and  who 
also,  in  my  opinion,  gi'eatly  underrate  the  power 
of  metre  in  itself,  it  might  perhaps,  as  far  as  re- 
lates to  these  Volumes,  have  been  almost  suffi- 
cient to  observe,  that  poems  are  extant,  written 
upon  more  humble  subjects,  and  in  a  still  more 
naked  and  simple  style,  which  have  continued  to 
give  pleasure  from  generation  to  generation. 
Now,  if  nakedness  and  simplicity  be  a  defect,  the 
fact  here  mentioned  affords  a  strong  presumption 
that  poems  somewhat  less  naked  and  simple  are 
capable  of  affording  pleasure  at  the  present  day  ; 
and  what  I  wished  clnefly  to  attempt,  at  present, 
was  to  justify  myself  for  having  written  under  the 
uni)ression  of  this  belief. 


216       APPKNDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

But  various  causes  might  be  pointed  out  why, 
when  the  style  is  manly,  and  the  subject  of  some 
importance,  words  metrically  arranged  will  long 
continue  to  impart  such  a  pleasure  to  mankind  as 
he  who  proves  the  extent  of  that  pleasure  will  be 
desirous  to  impart.  The  end  of  Poetry  is  to  pro- 
duce excitement  in  coexistence  with  an  overbal- 
ance of  pleasure  ;  but,  by  the  supposition,  excite- 
ment is  an  unusual  and  irregular  state  of  the 
mind ;  ideas  and  feelings  do  not,  in  that  state,  suc- 
ceed each  other  in  accustomed  order.  If  the 
woi-ds,  however,  by  which  this  excitement  is  pro- 
duced be  in  themselves  powerful,  or  the  images 
and  feelings  have  an  undue  proportion  of  pain 
connected  with  them,  there  is  some  danger  that 
the  excitement  may  be  can-ied  beyond  its  proper 
bounds.  Now  the  co-presence  of  something  regu- 
lar, something  to  which  the  mind  has  been  accus- 
tomed in  various  moods  and  in  a  less  excited  state, 
cannot  but  have  great  efficacy  in  tempering  and 
restraining  the  passion  by  an  intertexture  of  ordi- 
nary feeling,  and  of  feeling  not  strictly  and  neces- 
sarily connected  with  the  passion.  This  is  un- 
questionably true ;  and  hence,  though  the  opinion 
will  at  first  appear  paradoxical,  from  the  tendency 
of  metre  to  divest  language,  in  a  certain  degree, 
of  its  reality,  and  thus  to  throw  a  sort  of  half- 
consciousness  of  unsubstantial  existence  over  the 
whole  composition,  there  can  be  little  doubt  but 
that  more  pathetic  situations  and  sentiments,  thai 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       217 

Is,  those  which  have  a  greater  proportion  of  pain 
connected  with  thera,  may  be  endured  in  metrical 
composition,  especially  in  rhyme,  than  in  prose. 
The  metre  of  the  old  ballads  is  very  artless  ;  yet 
they  contain  many  passages  which  would  illustrate 
this  opinion  ;  and  I  hope,  if  the  following  Poems 
be  attentively  perused,  similar  instances  will  be 
found  in  them.  This  opinion  may  be  further  il- 
lustrated by  appealing  to  the  Reader's  own  expe- 
rience of  the  reluctance  with  which  he  comes  to 
the  reperusal  of  the  distressful  parts  of  Clarissa 
Harlowe,  or  the  Gamester ;  while  Shakespeare's 
writings,  in  the  most  pathetic  scenes,  never  act 
upon  us,  as  pathetic,  beyond  the  bounds  of  pleas- 
ure, —  an  effect  which,  in  a  much  greater  degree 
than  mi^ht  at  first  be  imagined,  is  to  be  ascribed 
to  small,  but  continual  and  regular,  impulses  of 
pleasurable  surprise  fi'om  the  metrical  arrange- 
ment. —  On  the  other  hand,  (what  it  must  be  al- 
lowed will  much  more  frequently  happen,)  if  the 
Poet's  words  should  be  incommensurate  with  the 
passion,  and  inadequate  to  raise  the  Reader  to  a 
height  of  desirable  excitement,  then  (unless  the 
Poet's  choice  of  his  metre  has  been  grossly  injudi- 
cious) in  the  feelings  of  pleasure  which  the  Read- 
er has  been  accustomed  to  connect  with  metre  in 
general,  and  in  the  feeling,  whether  cheerful  or 
melancholy,  which  he  has  been  accustomed  to  con- 
nect with  that  particular  movement  of  metre, 
"iiere  will  be  found  something  which  will  p-reatlj 


218       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

contribute  to  impart  passion  to  the  words,  and  to 
effect  tiie  complex  end  which  the  Poet  proposes 
to  himself. 

If  I  had  undertaken  a  systejiatic  defence  of 
the  theory  here  maintained,  it  would  have  been 
my  duty  to  develop  the  various  causes  upon 
which  the  pleasure  received  from  metrical  lan- 
guage depends.  Among  the  chief  of  these  causes 
is  to  be  reckoned  a  principle  which  must  be  well 
known  to  those  who  have  made  any  of  the  Arts 
the  object  of  accurate  reflection  ;  namely,  the 
pleasure  which  the  mind  derives  from  the  percep- 
tion of  similitude  in  dissimilitude.  This  principle 
is  tlie  great  spring  of  the  activity  of  our  minds, 
and  their  chief  feeder.  From  this  princijjle  the 
direction  of  the  sexual  appetite,  and  all  the  pas- 
sions connected  with  it,  take  their  origin :  it  is  the 
life  of  our  ordinary  conversation  ;  and  upon  the 
accuracy  with  which  similitude  in  dissimilitude, 
and  dissimilitude  in  similitude  are  perceived,  de- 
pend our  taste  and  our  moral  feelings.  Tt  would 
not  be  a  useless  employment  to  apply  this  principle 
to  (he  consideration  of  metre,  and  to  show  that 
metre  is  hence  enabled  to  afford  much  pleasure, 
and  to  point  out  in  what  manner  that  pleasure  is 
produced.  But  my  limits  will  not  permit  me  to 
enter  upon  this  sul»ject,  and  I  must  content  myself 
with  a  general  summary. 

I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  over- 
Hu\?  of  powerful  feelings  :  it  takes  its  origin  from 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  EIC.       219 

emolion  recollected  in  tranquillity  :  the  emotion  is 
sontempiated  till,  by  a  species   of  reaction,  the 
tranquillity  gradually  disappears,  and  an  emotion, 
kindred  to  that  which  was  before  the  subject  of 
contemplation,  is  gradually  pi'oduced,  and  does  it- 
self actually  exist  in  the  mind.  .  In  this  mood  suc- 
cessful composition   generally  begins,   and   in   a 
mood  similar  to  this  it  is  carried  on ;  but  the  emo- 
tion, of  whatever  kind,  and  in  whatever  degree, 
from  various  causes,  is  qualified  by  various  pleas- 
ures, so  that  in  describing  any  passions  whatso- 
ever, which  are  voluntai-ily  described;  the  mind 
will,  upon  the  whole,  be  in  a  state  of  enjoyment. 
If  Nature  be  thus  cautious  to  presei-ve  in  a  state 
of  enjoyment  a  being  so  employed,  the  Poet  ought 
to  profit  by   the   lesson  held  forth  to   him,  and 
ought  especially  to  take  care,  that,  whatever  pas- 
sions he  communicates  to  his  Reader,  those  pas- 
sions, if  his  Reader's  mind  be  sound  and  vigorous, 
should  always  be  accompanied  with  an  overbal- 
ance of  pleasure.     Now  the  music  of  harmonious 
metrical  language,  the  sense  of  difficulty  overcome, 
and  the  blind  association  of  pleasure  which  has 
been  previously  received  from  works  of  rhyme  or 
metre  of  the  same  or  similar  construction,  an  in- 
distinct perception   perpetually  renewed  of  lan- 
guage closely  resembling  that  of  real  life,  and  yet, 
in  the  circumstance  of  metre,  differing  from  it  so 
widely,  —  all  these  imperceptibly  make  up  a  com- 
plex feeling  of  delight,  which  is  of  the  most  im- 


220  APPENDIX,    PREFACKS,    KTC 

portant  use  in  tempering  the  painful  feeling  always 
found  intermingled  with  powerful  descriptions  of 
the  deeper  passions.  This  effect  is  always  pro-- 
duced  in  pathetic  and  impassioned  poetry  ;  while, 
in  lighter  compositions,  the  ease  and  gracefulness 
with  which  the  Poet  manages  his  numbers  are 
themselves  confessedly  a  principal  source  of  the 
gratification  of  the  Reader.  All  that  is  necessary 
to  say,  however,  upon  this  subject,  may  be  ef- 
fected by  affirming,  what  few  persons  will  deny, 
that,  of  two  descriptions,  either  of  passions,  man- 
ners, or  characters,  each  of  them  equally  well  ex- 
ecuted, the  one  in  prose  and  the  other  in  verse, 
the  verse  will  be  read  a  hundred  times  where  the 
prose  is  read  once. 

Having  thus  explained  a  few  of  my  reasons  for 
writing  in  verse,  and  why  I  have  chosen  subjects 
from  common  life,  and  endeavored  to  bring  my 
language  near  to  the  real  language  of  men,  if  I 
have  been  too  minute  in  pleading  my  own  cause, 
I  have  at  the  same  time  been  treating  a  subject  of 
general  interest ;  and  for  this  reason  a  few  words 
shall  be  added  with  reference  solely  to  these  par- 
ticular poems,  and  to  some  defects  which  will  prob- 
ably be  found  in  them.  I  am  sensible  that  my 
associations  must  have  sometimes  been  particular 
instead  of  general,  and  that,  consequently,  giving 
to  things  a  false  im])onan('e,  I  may  have;  somc- 
Mmes  written  upon  unworthy  subjects  ;  but  T  am 
less  apprehensive  on  this  account,   than  that  m} 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       221 

ianguage  may  frequently  have  suffered  from  those 
arbiti-ary  connections  of  feelings  and  ideas  with 
particular  words  and  phrases,  from  which  no  man 
can  altogether  protect  himself.     Hence  I  have  no 
doubt,  that,  in  some  instances,  feelings,  even  of 
the  ludicrous,  may  be  given  to  my  Readers  by 
expi-essions  which  appeared  to  me  tender  and  pa- 
thetic.    Such  faulty  expressions,  were  I  convinced 
they  were  faulty  at  present,  and  that  they  must 
necessarily  continue  to  be  so,  I  would  willingly 
take  all  reasonable  pains  to  correct.     But  it   is 
dangerous  to  make  these  alterations  on  the  simple 
authority  of  a  few  individuals,  or  even  of  certain 
classes  of  men  ;  for  where  the  understanding  of  an 
Author  is  not  convinced,  or  his  feelings  altered, 
this  cannot  be  done  without  great  injury  to  him- 
self: for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  and  sup- 
port ;  and,  if  he  set  them  aside  in  one  instance, 
he  may  be  induced  to  repeat  this  act  till  his  mind 
shall  lose  all  confidence  in  itself,  and  become  ut- 
terly debilitated.     To  this  it  may  be  added,  that 
the  critic  ought  never  to  forget  that  he  is  him- 
self exposed  to  the  same  errors  as  the  Poet,  and 
perhaps   in  k  much   greater  degree :     for   there 
can  be  no  presumption  in  saying  of  most  readers, 
that  it  is  not  probable  they  will  be  so  well  ac- 
:[uainted    with    the    various     stages    of  meaning 
through  which  words  have  passed,  or   with   the 
fickleness  or  stability  of  the  relations  of  particu- 
lar ideas  to  each  other ;  and,  above  all,  since  they 


222  Ari'ENJDix,  ritErACKS,  etc. 

are  so  much  less  interested  in  the  subject,  they 
may  decide  lightly  and  carelessly. 

Long  as  the  Reader  has  been  detained,  I  hope 
he  will  permit  me  to  caution  him  against  a  mode 
of"  false  criticism  which  has  been  applied  to 
Poetry,  in  which  the  language  closely  resembles 
that  of  life  and  nature.  Such  verses  have  been 
triumphed  over  in  parodies,  of  which  Dr.  John- 
son's stanza  is  a  fair  specimen  :  — 

"  I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head 
And  walked  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I  met  another  man 
Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand." 

Immediately  under  these  lines  let  us  place  one 
of  the  most  justly  admired  stanzas  of  the  Bahea 
in  the  Wood. 

"  Tliese  pretty  Babes  with  hand  in  hand 
Went  wandering  up  and  down; 
But  never  more  they  saw  the  Man 
Approaching  from  the  Town." 

In  both  these  stanzas  the  words,  and  the  order 
of  the  words,  in  no  respect  differ  from  the  most 
nniuipassioned  conversation.  There  are  words  in 
both,  tur  example,  "  the  Strand,"  and  "the  Town," 
connected  with  none  but  the  most  liuniliar  ideas ; 
yet  the  one  stanza  we  admit  as  admirable,  and  the 
otlier  as  a  lair  example  of  the  superlative  con- 
templil)le.  "Whence  arises  this  difference  ?  Not 
troni  I  hi;  mcli'e,  not  frum  the  language,  not  from 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       223 

the  order  of  the  words ;  hut  the  matter  ex 
pressed  in  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  is  contemptible. 
The  proper  method  of  treating  trivial  and  simple 
verses,  to  which  Dr.  Johnson's  stanza  would  be  a 
fair  parallelism,  is  not  to  say,  this  is  a  bad  kind  of 
poetry,  or,  this  is  not  poetry;  but,  this  wants  sense  ; 
it  is  neither  interesting  in  itself,  nor  can  lead  to 
anything  interesting  ;  the  images  neither  originate 
in  that  sane  state  of  feeling  which  arises  out  of 
thought,  nor  can  excite  thought  or  feeling  in  the 
Reader.  This  is  the  only  sensible  manner  of  deal- 
ing with  such  verses.  Why  trouble  yourself  about 
the  species  till  you  have  previously  decided  upon 
the  genus  ?  Why  take  pains  to  prove  that  an  ape 
is  not  a  Newton,  when  it  is  self-evident  that  he  is 
not  a  man  ? 

One  request  I  must  make  of  my  reader,  which 
is,  that  in  judging  these  Poems  he  would  decide 
by  his  own  feelings  genuinely,  and  not  by  reflec- 
tion upon  what  will  probably  be  the  judgment  of 
others.  How  common  is  it  to  hear  a  person  say, 
I  myself  do  not  object  to  this  style  of  composition, 
or  this  or  that  expression,  but  to  such  and  such 
classes  of  people  it  will  appear  mean  or  ludicrous! 
This  mode  of  criticism,  so  destructive  of  all  sound, 
unadulterated  judgment,  is  almost  universal:  let 
the  Reader  then  abide,  independently,  by  his  own 
feehngs,  and,  if  he  finds  himself  affected,  let  him 
not  suffer  such  conjectures  to  interfere  with  his 
pkasure. 


22'1  A.PPENDIX,    PREPACKS,    KTC. 

If  an  Author,  by  any  single  composition,  liaa 
impressed  us  with  respect  for  his  talents,  it  is  use- 
ful to  consider  this  as  affording  a  presumption, 
that,  on  other  occasions  where  we  have  been  dis- 
pleased, he,  nevertheless,  may  not  have  written  ill 
or  absurdly ;  and  further,  to  give  him  so  mucli 
credit  for  this  one  composition  as  may  induce  iis 
to  review  what  has  displeased  us  with  more  care 
than  we  should  otherwise  have  bestowed  upon  it. 
This  is  not  only  an  act  of  justice,  but,  in  our  de- 
cisions upon  poetry  especially,  may  conduce,  in  a 
high  degree,  to  the  improvement  of  our  own  taste  : 
for  an  accurate  taste  in  poetry,  and  in  all  the 
other  arts,  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has  observed, 
is  an  acquired  talent,  which  can  only  be  pro- 
duced by  thought  and  long-continued  intercourse 
with  the  best  models  of  composition.  This  is 
mentioned,  not  with  so  ridiculous  a  purpose  as  to 
pi-event  the  most  inexperienced  Reader  from  judg- 
ing for  himself,  (I  have  already  said  that  I  wish  him 
to  judge  for  himself,)  but  merely  to  temper  the 
rashness  of  decision,  and  to  suggest,  that,  if  Poetry 
be  a  subject  on  which  much  time  has  not  been 
bestowed,  the  judgment  may  be  erroneous  ;  and 
that  in  many  cases  it  necessarily  will  be  so. 

Nothing  would,  I  know,  have  so  effectually  con- 
tributed to  further  the  end  which  I  have  in  view, 
<is  to  have  shown  of  what  kind  the  pleasure  is.  aii<l 
l)ow  that  pleasure  is  produced,  wliich  is  eonf'ess- 
edly  [)rt)duced  by  metrical  composition  essentially 


APPKNDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       225 

difFerciit  from  that  which  I  have  here  endeavored 
to  recommend :  for  the  Reader  will  say  that  he 
has  been  pleased  by  such  composition ;  and  what 
more  can  be  done  for  him  ?  The  power  of  any 
art  is  limited ;  and  he  will  suspect,  that,  if  it  be 
proposed  to  furnish  him  with  new  friends,  that  can 
be  only  upon  condition  of  his  abandoning  his  old 
friends.  Besides,  as  I  have  said,  the  Reader  is 
himself  conscious  of  the  pleasure  which  he  has 
received  from  such  composition,  composition  to 
which  he  has  peculiarly  attached  the  endearing 
name  of  Poetry;  and  all  men  feel  an  habitual 
gratitude,  and  something  of  an  honorable  bigotry, 
for  the  objects  which  have  long  continued  to 
please  them :  we  not  only  wish  to  be  pleased, 
but  to  be  pleased  in  that  particular  way  in  which 
we  have  been  accustomed  to  be  pleased.  There 
is  in  these  feelings  enough  to  resist  a  host  of  argu- 
ments ;  and  I  should  be  the  less  able  to  combat 
them  successfully,  as  I  am  willing  to  allow,  that, 
in  order  entirely  to  enjoy  the  Poetry  which  I  am 
recommending,  it  would  be  necessary  to  give  up 
much  of  what  is  ordinarily  enjoyed.  But,  would 
my  limits  have  permitted  me  to  point  out  how  this 
pleasure  is  produced,  many  obstacles  might  have 
been  removed,  and  the  Reader  assisted  in  perceiv- 
ing that  the  powers  of  language  are  not  so  limited 
as  he  may  suppose  ;  and  that  it  is  possible  for  po- 
•itry  to  give  other  enjoyments,  of  a  purer,  more 
lasting,  and  more  exquisite  nature.     This  part  of 

VOL.  V.  15 


226       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

the  .subject  has  not  been  altogether  neglected,  but 
it  has  not  been  so  much  my  present  aun  to  prove 
tliat  the  interest  excited  by  some  other  kinds  of 
poetiy  is  less  vivid,  and  less  woilhy  of  the  nobler 
powers  of  the  mind,  as  to  offer  reasons  for  pre- 
suming, that,  if  my  purpose  were  fulfilled,  a  spe- 
cies of  poetry  would  be  produced,  which  is  genuine 
poetry ;  in  its  nature  well  adapted  to  interest 
mankind  permanently,  and  likewise  important  in 
the  multiplicity  and  quality  of  its  moral  relations. 
From  what  has  been  said,  and  fi-om  a  perusal 
of  the  Poems,  the  Reader  will  be  able  clearly  to 
perceive  the  object  which  I  had  in  view  :  he  will 
determine  how  far  it  has  been  attained ;  and,  what 
is  a  much  more  important  question,  whether  it  be 
worth  attaining :  and  upon  the  decision  of  these 
two  questions  will  rest  ray  claim  to  the  approbation 
of  the  Public. 


APPENDIX. 


S«e  page  214,  —  "  by  what  is  usually  called  Poetic  Dio- 

TION." 


Perhaps,  as  I  have  no  right  to  expect  that  at- 
tentive perusal  without  which,  confined,  as  I  have 
been,  to  the  narrow  limits  of  a  preface,  my  mean- 
ing cannot  be  thoroughly  understood,  I  am  anx- 
ious to  give  an  exact  notion  of  the  sense  in  which 
the  phrase  Poetic  Diction  has  been  used  ;  and  for 
this  purpose  a  few  words  shall  here  be  added, 
concerning  the  origin  and  characteristics  of  the 
phraseology  which  I  have  condemned  under  that 
name. 

The  earliest  Poets  of  all  nations  generally  wrote 
from  passion  excited  by  real  events ;  they  wrote 
naturally,  and  as  men :  feeling  powerfully  as  they 
did.  their  language  was  daring,  and  fimirative. 
In  succeeding  times.  Poets,  and  men  ambitious  of 
the  fame  of  Poets,  perceiving  the  influence  of  such 
language,  and  desirous  of  producing  the  same  ef- 
fect without  being  animated  by  the  same  passion, 
5et  themselves  to  a  mechanical  adoption  of  these 
figures  of  speech    and  made  use  of  them,  some- 


S28       Al'PENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

times  with  propriety,  but  much  more  frequently 
applied  them  to  feelings  and  thoughts  with  which 
they  had  no  natural  connection  whatsoever.  A 
language  was  thus  insensibly  produced,  differing 
materially  from  the  real  language  of  men  in  any 
situation.  The  Reader  or  Hearer  of  thir  distort- 
ed language  found  himself  in  a  perturbed  and  un- 
usual state  of  mind  :  when  affected  by  the  genuine 
language  of  passion,  he  had  been  in  a  perturbed 
and  unusual  state  of  mind  also :  in  both  cases  he 
was  willing  that  his  common  judgment  and  under- 
standing should  be  laid  asleep,  and  he  had  no  in- 
stinctive and  infallible  pei"cej)tion  of  the  true  to 
make  him  reject  the  false  ;  the  one  served  as  a 
passport  for  the  other.  The  emotion  was  in  both 
cases  delightful,  and  no  wonder  if  he  confounded 
the  one  with  the  other,  and  believed  them  both  to 
be  produced  by  the  same,  or  similar  causes.  Be- 
sides, the  Poet  spake  to  him  in  the  character  of  a 
man  to  be  looked  up  to,  a  man  of  genius  and  au- 
thority. Thus,  and  from  a  variety  of  other  causes, 
this  distorted  lanKuage  was  received  with  admira- 
lion  ;  and  Poets,  it  is  probable,  who  had  before 
contented  themselves  for  the  most  part  with  mis- 
applying only  expressions  which  at  first  had  been 
dictated  by  real  passion,  carried  the  abuse  still  fur- 
th(;r,  and  introduced  phrases  composed  apparently 
in  the  spirit  of  the  original  figurative  language  of 
()assion,  yet  altogetlier  of  their  own  invention,  and 
uliMracterized  by  various  degrees  of  wanton  devia- 
HlioM  I'ntm  good  sense  and  nature. 


APPKNDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC.  225) 

It  is  indeed  true,  that  the  language  of  the  earli- 
est Poets  was  felt  to  differ  materially  from  ordi- 
nary language,  because  it  was  the  language  of 
extraordinary  occasions  ;  but  it  was  really  spoken 
by  men,  language  which  the  Poet  hinaself  had  ut- 
tered when  he  had  been  affected  by  the  events 
which  he  described,  or  which  he  had  heard  ut- 
tered by  those  around  him.  To  this  language  it 
is  probable  that  metre  of  some  sort  or  other  was 
early  superadded.  This  separated  the  genuine 
language  of  Poeti-y  still  further  from  common  life, 
so  that  whoever  read  or  heard  the  poems  of  these 
earliest  Poets  felt  himself  moved  in  a  way  in 
which  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  be  moved 
in  real  life,  and  by  causes  manifestly  different  from 
those  which  acted  upon  him  in  real  life.  This  was 
the  great  temptation  to  all  the  corruptions  which 
have  followed  :  under  the  protection  of  this  feeling, 
succeeding  Poets  constructed  a  phraseology  which 
had  one  thing,  it  is  true,  in  common  with  the  gen- 
uine language  of  poetry,  namely,  that  it  was  not 
heard  in  ordinary  conversation  ;  that  it  was  unu- 
sual. But  the  first  Poets,  as  I  have  said,  spake  a 
language  which,  though  unusual,  was  still  the  lan- 
guage of  men.  This  circumstance,  however,  was 
disregarded  by  their  successors  :  they  found  that 
they  could  please  by  easier  means  :  they  became 
proud  of  modes  of  expression  which  they  them- 
selves had  invented,  and  which  were  uttered  only 
by  themselves.     In  process  of  time  metre  became 


230  APPENDIX,    PRF.FACES,    ETC. 

A  symbol  or  promise  of  this  unusual  language,  and 
whoever  took  upon  him  to  wi-ite  in  metre,  accord- 
ing as  he  possessed  more  or  less  of  true  poetic  ge- 
nius, introduced  less  or  more  of  this  adulterated 
phraseology  into  his  compositions,  and  the  true 
and  the  ialse  were  inseparably  interwoven,  until, 
the  taste  of  men  becoming  gradually  preverted, 
tills  language  was  received  as  a  natural  language; 
and  at  length,  by  the  influence  of  books  upon  men, 
did  to  a  certain  degree  really  become  so.  Abuses 
of  this  kind  were  imported  from  one  nation  to  an- 
other, and  with  the  progress  of  refinement  this 
diction  became  daily  more  and  more  corru])t, 
thrusting  out  of  sight  the  plain  humanities  of  na- 
ture by  a  motley  masijuerade  of  tricks,  quaint- 
nesses,  hierogly{)hics,  and  enigmas. 

It  would  not  be  uninteresting  to  point  out  the 
causesof  the  pleasure  given  by  this  extravagant  and 
absurd  diction.  It  depends  upon  a  great  variety 
of  causes,  but  upon  none,  perhaps,  more  than  its  in- 
fluence in  impressing  a  notion  of  the  pcculinrity  and 
(ixaltation  of  the  Poet's  character,  and  in  liattering 
the  Reader's  self-love  by  bringing  him  nearer  to 
a  sympathy  with  that  character ;  an  efTed  which 
is  accomplished  by  unsettling  ordinary  habits  ol 
thinking,  and  thus  assisting  the  Reader  toapjiroacih 
lo  that  perturl)ed  and  dizzy  state  of  mind  in  which 
if  he  does  not  find  himself,  he  imagines  that  he  is 
balked  of  a  peculiar  enjoyment  which  poetry  can 
ftnd  ought  to  bestow. 


APPKNDIX,  PKEFACES,  KTC.       231 

The  sonnet  quoted  from  Gray,  in  the  Preface, 
except  the  hnes  printed  in  ItaHcs,  consists  of  Httle 
else  but  this  diction,  though  not  of  the  worst  kind  ; 
and  mdeed,  if  one  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  it 
is  far  too  common  in  the  best  winters  both  ancient 
and  modern.  Perhaps  in  no  way,  by  positive  ex- 
ample, could  more  easily  be  given  a  notion  of 
what  I  mean  by  the  phrase  poetic  diction,  than  by 
referring  to  a  comparison  between  the  metrical 
paraphrase  which  we  have  of  passages  in  the  Old 
and  New  Testament,  and  those  passages  as  they 
exist  in  our  common  Translation.  See  Pope's 
"Messiah"  throughout;  Prior's  "Did  sweeter 
sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue,"  &c.,  &c. 
"  Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and 
of  angels,"  &c.,  &c.  1st  Corinthians,  chap.  xiii. 
By  way  of  immediate  example,  take  the  following 
Df  Dr.  Johnson  :  — 


"  Turn  on  the  piiident  Ant  thy  heedless  eyes, 
Observe  her  labors,  Sluggard,  and  be  wise; 
No  stern  command,  no  monitory  voice. 
Prescribes  her  duties,  or  directs  her  choice; 
Yet,  timely  provident,  she  hastes  away 
To  snatch  the  blessings  of  a  plenteous  day; 
When  fruitful  Summer  loads  the  teeming  plain, 
She  crops  the  harvest,  and  she  stores  the  grain. 
How  long  shall  sloth  usurp  thy  useless  hours, 
Unnerve  thy  ^Hgor,  and  enchain  thy  powers  ? 
Wliile  artful  shades  thy  downy  couch  inclose, 
And  soft  solicitation  courts  repose,    ' 
Amidst  the  drowsy  charms  of  dull  delighi, 
Year  chases  year  with  unremitted  flight. 


232  AlM'KNDiX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

Till  Wniit  now  following,  fraudulent  and  slew, 
Sliiill  spring  to  seize  thee,  like  an  ambushed  foe." 

From  tliis  hubbub  of  words  pass  to  the  original 
"  Go  to  tlie  Aut,  thou  Shiggard  ;  consider  her 
ways,  and  be  wise  :  whicli  having  no  guide,  over- 
seer, or  ruler,  provideth  her  meat  in  the  summer, 
and  gathereth  her  food  in  the  harvest.  How  long 
■wilt  thou  sleep,  O  Sluggard?  when  wilt  thou 
arise  out  of  thy  sleep  ?  Yet  a  little  sleep,  a  httle 
slumber,  a  little  folding  of  the  hands  to  sleep. 
So  shall  thy  poverty  come  as  one  that  tnivelleth, 
and  thy  want  as  an  armed  man."  Proverbs, 
chap.  vi. 

One  more  quotation,  and  I  have  done.  It  is 
from  Cowper's  Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by 
A-lexander  Selkirk  :  — 

"  Religion !  what  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heavenly  word ! 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold. 
Or  all  that  this  earth  can  aflbrd. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 
These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard, 
Ne'er  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 
Or  smiled  when  a  Sabbath  appeared. 

"  Ye  winds,  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 
Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial,  endearing  report 
Of  a  land  I  must  visit  no  more. 
My  Friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 
A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me? 
O  tell  nic  I  yet  have  a  friend, 
Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see." 


APPENDIX,  I'REFACES,  ETC.       233 

Tliis  passage  is  quoted  as  an  instance  of  three 
different  styles  of  composition.  Tlie  first  four 
lines  are  poorly  expressed ;  some  Critics  would 
call  the  language  prosaic  ;  the  fact  is,  it  would  be 
bad  prose,  so  bad,  that  it  is  scarcely  worse  in 
metre.  The  epithet  "  church-going  "  applied  to  a 
bell,  and  that  by  so  chaste  a  writer  as  Cowper,  is 
an  instance  of  the  strange  abuses  which  Poets 
have  introduced  into  their  language,  till  they  and 
their  Readers  take  them  as  matters  of  course,  if 
they  do  not  single  them  out  expressly  as  objects  of 
admiration.  The  two  lines  "  Ne'er  sighed  at  the 
sound,"  &c.,  are,  in  my  opinion,  an  instance  of  the 
language  of  passion  wrested  from  its  proper  use, 
and,  from  the  mere  circumstance  of  the  composition 
being  in  metre,  applied  upon  an  occasion  that  does 
not  justify  such  violent  expressions;  and  I  should 
condemn  the  passage,  though  perhaps  few  Readers 
will  agree  with  me,  as  vicious  poetic  diction.  The 
last  stanza  is  throughout  admirably  expressed* 
it  would  be  equally  good  whether  in  prose  or 
verse,  except  that  the  Reader  has  an  exquisite 
pleasure  in  seeing  such  natural  language  so 
naturally  connected  with  metre.  The  beauty  of 
this  stanza  tempts  me  to  conclude  with  a  principle 
which  ought  never  to  be  lost  sight  of,  and  which 
has  been  my  chief  guide  in  all  I  have  said,  — ■ 
namely,  that  in  works  of  imagination  and  senti- 
ment, for  of  these  only  have  I  been  treating,  in 
broportiou   as    ideas    and    feelings    are    valuable. 


234       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

whether  the  composition  be  in  prose  or  in  verse, 
they  require  and  exact  one  and  the  same  language. 
Metre  is  but  adventitious  to  composition,  and 
the  phraseology  for  which  that  passport  is  neces- 
sary, even  where  it  may  be  graceful  at  all,  will 
be  little  valued  by  the  judicious. 


ESSAY,   SUPPLEMENTARY   TO   THE 
PREFACE. 


With  the  young  of  both  sexes,  Poetry  is,  like 
love,  a  passion ;  but,  for  much  the  greater  part  of 
those  who  have  been  proud  of  its  pow^-.r  over  their 
minds,  a  necessity  soon  arises  of  breaking  the 
pleasing  bondage  ;  or  it  relaxes  of  itself ;  —  the 
thoughts  being  occupied  in  domestic  cares,  or  the 
time  engrossed  by  business.  Poetry  then  becomes 
only  an  occasional  recreation ;  while  to  those 
whose  existence  passes  away  in  a  course  of  fash- 
ionable pleasure,  it  is  a  species  of  luxurious 
amusement.  In  middle  and  declining  age,  a  scat- 
tered number  of  serious  persons  resort  to  Poetry, 
as  to  religion,  for  a  protection  against  the  pressure 
of  trivial  employments,  and  as  a  consolation  for 
the  afflictions  of  life.  And,  lastly,  there  are  many, 
who,  having  been  enamored  of  this  art  in  tlieir 
youth,  have  found  leisure,  after  youth  was  spent, 
to  cultivate  general  literature  ;  in  which  Poetry 
has  continued  to  be  comprehended  as  a  study. 

Into  the  above  classes  the  Readers  of  Poetiy 
■Bay  be  divided  ;  Critics  abound  in  them  all ;   but 


236       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

from  tlie  last  only  caii  opinions  be  collected  of  ab- 
solute value,  and  worthy  to  be  depended  upon,  as 
prophetic  of  the  destiny  of  a  new  work.  The 
young,  who  in  nothing  can  escape  delusion,  are 
especially  subject  to  it  in  their  intercourse  with 
Poetr}'.  The  cause,  not  so  obvious  as  the  fact  is 
unquestionable,  is  the  same  as  that  from  which 
erroneous  judgments  in  this  art,  in  the  minds  of 
men  of  all  ages,  chiefly  proceed  ;  but  upon  youth 
it  operates  with  i^eculiar  force.  The  appropriate 
business  of  Poetry,  (which,  nevertheless,  if  genu- 
ine, is  as  permanent  as  pure  science.)  her  ap- 
propriate employment,  her  privilege  and  her  duty, 
is  to  treat  of  things  not  as  they  are,  but  as  they 
appear ;  not  as  they  exist  in  themselves,  but 
as  they  seem  to  exist  to  the  senses,  and  to  the 
passiojis.  What  a  world  of  delusion  docs  this  ac- 
knowledged obligation  prepare  for  tlie  inexpe- 
rienced !  what  temptations  to  go  astray  are  here 
held  forth  for  them  whose  thoughts  have  been  little 
disciplined  by  the  understanding,  and  whose  feel- 
ings revolt  from  tlie  sway  of  reason  !  —  When  a 
juvenile  Reader  is  in  the  height  of  his  rapture 
witli  some  vicious  passage,  should  experience 
throw  in  doubts,  or  common  sense  suggest  suspi- 
cions, a  lurking  consciousness  that  the  realities  ot' 
the  Muse  are  but  shows,  and  that  her  liveliest  ex- 
citements are  raised  by  transient  shocks  of  con- 
flicting f«ieling  and  successive  assemblages  of  con- 
\radicfoiy    tliouglits,    is  ever   at    hand    to  justify 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       237 

axtiavagance,  and  to  sanction  absurdity.  But,  it 
may  be  asked,  as  these  illusions  are  unavoidable, 
and,  no  doubt,  eminently  useful  to  the  mind  as  a 
process,  what  good  can  be  gained  by  making  ob- 
servations, the  tendency  of  which  is  to  diminish 
the  confidence  of  youth  in  its  feelings,  and  thus  to 
abi'idge  its  innocent  and  even  profitable  pleasures  ? 
The  reproach  implied  in  the  question  could  not  be 
warded  off,  if  youth  wei'e  incapable  of  being  delight- 
ed with  what  is  truly  excellent ;  or  if  these  errors 
always  terminated  of  themselves  in  due  season. 
But  with  the  majority,  though  their  force  be  abat- 
ed, they  continue  through  life.  Moreover,  the 
tire  of  youth  is  too  vivacious  an  element  to  be  ex- 
tinguished or  damped  by  a  philosophical  remark ; 
and,  while  there  is  no  danger  that  what  has  been 
said  will  be  injurious  or  painful  to  the  ardent  and 
the  confident,  it  may  prove  beneficial  to  those  who, 
beins:  enthusiastic,  are  at  the  same  time  modest 
and  ingenuous.  The  intimation  may  unite  with 
their  own  misgivings  to  regulate  their  sensibility, 
and  to  bring  in,  sooner  than  it  would  otherwise 
have  arrived,  a  more  discreet  and  sound  judgment. 
If  it  should  excite  wonder  that  men  of  ability, 
in  later  life,  whose  understandings  have  been  ren- 
dered acute  by  practice  in  affairs,  should  be  so 
easily  and  so  far  imposed  upon  when  they  happen 
to  take  up  a  new  work  in  verse,  this  appears  to  be 
llie  cause,  —  that,  having  discontinued  their  atten- 
tion to  Poetry,  whatever  progress  may  have  been 


238       APPEXDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

made  in  other  departments  of  knowledge,  they  have 
not,  as  to  this  art,  advanced  in  true  discernment  be- 
yond tiie  age  of  youth.  If,  then,  a  new  poem  fall 
in  their  way,  whose  attractions  are  of  that  kind  which 
would  have  enraptured  them  during  the  heat  of 
youth,  the  judgment  not  being  improved  to  a  de- 
gree that  they  shall  be  disgusted,  they  are  daz- 
zled ;  and  prize  and  clierish  the  faults  for  having 
had  power  to  make  the  present  time  vanish  before 
them,  and  to  throw  the  mind  back,  as  by  enchant- 
ment, into  the  happiest  season  of  life.  As  they 
read,  powers  seem  to  be  revived,  passions  are  re- 
generated, and  pleasures  restored.  The  book 
was  probably  taken  up  after  an  escape  from  the 
burden  of  business,  and  with  a  wish  to  forget  the 
world,  and  all  its  vexations  and  anxieties.  Hav- 
ing obtained  this  wish,  and  so  much  more,  it  is  nat- 
ural that  they  should  make  report  as  they  have  felt. 
If  Men  of  mature  age,  through  want  of  prac- 
tice, be  thus  easily  beguiled  into  admiration  of 
absurdities,  extravagances,  and  misplaced  orna- 
ments, thinking  it  proper  that  their  understandings 
should  enjoy  a  holiday,  while  they  are  unbending 
their  minds  with  verse,  it  may  be  expected  that 
such  Headers  will  resemble  their  former  selves 
also  in  strength  of  prejudice,  and  an  inaptitude  to 
be  moved  l)y  the  unostentatious  beauties  of  a  pure 
Btyle.  In  I  lie  higher  Poetry,  an  enlightened 
Critic  chi<Mly  looks  for  a  reflection  of  the  wisilom 
»f  the  heart  and  the  grandeur  of  the  imaginaliou. 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       239 

Wlierever  these  appear,  simplicity  accompanies 
tbem  ;  Magnificence  herself",  when  legitimate,  de- 
pending upon  a  simplicity  of  her  own,  to  regulate 
her  ornaments.  But  it  is  a  well-known  property 
of  human  nature,  that  our  estimates  are  ever  gov- 
erned by  comparisons,  of  which  we  are  conscious 
with  various  degrees  of  distinctness.  Is  it  not, 
then,  inevitable,  (confining  these  observations  to 
the  effects  of  style  merely,)  that  an  eye,  accus- 
tomed to  the  glaring  hues  of  diction  by  which  such 
Readers  are  caught  and  excited,  •will  for  the  most 
part  be  rather  repelled  than  attracted  by  an  origi- 
nal Work,  the  coloring  of  which  is  disposed  ac- 
cording to  a  pure  and  refined  scheme  of  harmony  ? 
It  is  in  the  fine  arts  as  in  the  affairs  of  life,  no 
man  can  sei've  (i.  e.  obey  with  zeal  and  fidelity) 
two  Masters. 

As  Poetry  is  most  just  to  its  own  divine  origin 
when  it  administers  the  comforts  and  breathes  the 
spirit  of  religion,  they  who  have  learned  to  per- 
ceive this  truth,  and  who  betake  themselves  to 
reading  verse  for  sacred  purposes,  must  be  pre- 
served from  numei^ous  illusions  to  which  the  two 
Classes  of  Readers,  whom  we  have  been  consid- 
ering, are  liable.  But,  as  the  mind  grows'serious 
from  the  weight  of  life,  the  range  of  its  passions 
is  contracted  accordingly;  and  its  sympathies  be- 
come so  exclusive,  that  many  species  of  high  ex- 
cellence wholly  escape,  or  but  languidly  excite,  its 
Jiotice.     Besides,  men  who  read  from  religious  of 


240  ArPENDlX,    I'REKACES,    ETC. 

rnonil  inclinations,  even  when  the  subject  is  of  thai 
kind  which  they  approve,  are  beset  with  miscon- 
ceptions and  mistakes  peculiar  to  themselves. 
Attaching  so  much  importance  to  the  truths  which 
interest  them,  they  are  prone  to  overrate  the 
Authors  by  whom  those  truths  are  expressed  and 
enforced.  They  come  prepared  to  impart  so 
much  passion  to  the  Poet's  language,  that  they 
remain  unconscious  how  little,  in  fact,  they  receive 
from  it.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  religious  faith 
is  to  him  who  holds  it  so  momentous  a  thing,  and 
error  appears  to  be  attended  with  such  tremen- 
dous consequences,  that,  if  opinions  touching  upon 
religion  occur  which  the  Reader  condemns,  he  not 
only  cannot  sympathize  with  them,  however  ani- 
mated the  expression,  but  there  is,  for  the  most 
part,  an  end  put  to  all  satisfaction  and  enjoyment. 
Love,  if  it  before  existed,  is  converted  into  dis- 
like ;  and  the  heart  of  the  Reader  is  set  against 
the  Author  and  his  book.  —  To  these  excesses, 
they,  who  from  their  professions  ouglit  to  be  the 
most  guarded  against  them,  are  perhaps  the  most 
liable  ;  I  mean  those  sects  whose  religion,  being 
from  the  calculating  understanding,  is  cold  and 
formal.  For  when  Ciiristianity,  the  religion  ot' 
immility,  is  founded  upon  the  proudest  faculty  of 
our  nature,  what  can  be  expected  but  contradic- 
tions ?  Accordingly,  believers  of  this  cast  ai-e 
Rt  one  time  contemptuous ;  at  another,  being 
troubled  as  they  are  and  must  be,  with  inward 


APPKXDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       241 

misgivings,  they  are  jealous  and  su.spicious :  — 
and  at  all  seasons  they  are  under  temptation  to 
supply,  by  the  heat  with  which  they  defend  their 
tenets,  the  animation  which  is  wanting  to  the  con- 
Btitutiori  of. the  religion  itself. 

Faith  was  given  to  man  that  his  affections,  de- 
tached from  the  treasures  of  time,  might  be  in- 
clined to  settle  upon  those  of  eternity  ;  —  the  ele- 
vation of  his  nature,  which  this  habit  produces  on 
earth,  being  to  him  a  presumptive  evidence  of  a 
future  state  of  existence,  and  giving  him  a  title  to 
partake  of  its  holiness.  The  religious  man  values 
what  he  sees  chiefly  as  an  "  imperfect  shadowing 
forth "  of  what  he  is  incapable  of  seeing.  The 
concerns  of  religion  refer  to  indefinite  objects,  and 
are  too  weighty  for  the  mind  to  support  them 
without  relieving  itself  by  resting  a  great  part  of 
the  burden  upon  words  and  symbols.  The  com- 
merce between  Man  and  his  Maker  cannot  be 
carried  on  but  by  a  process  where  much  is  repre 
sented  in  little,  and  the  Infinite  Being  accommo- 
dates himself  to  a  finite  capacity.  In  all  this  may 
be  perceived  the  affmity  between  Religion  and  Po- 
etry ;  between  Religion,  making  up  the  deficien- 
cies of  reason  by  faith,  —  and  Poetry,  passionate 
for  the  instruction  of  reason  ;  between  Religion, 
whose  element  is  infinitude,  and  whose  ultimate 
trust  is  the  supreme  of  things,  submitting  herself 
tO  circumscription,  and  reconciled  to  substitutions, 
—  and  Poetry,  ethereal  and  transcendent,  yet  in- 

VOL.   v.  16 


212       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

ciipjible  to  sushiin  her  existence  without  sensuous 
incaniation.  In  this  community  of  nature  may  be 
perceived  also  the  lurking  iacitements  of  kindred 
error  ;  —  so  that  we  shall  find  that  no  poetry  has 
been  more  subject  to  distortion,  than  that  species, 
the  argument  and  scope  of  which  is  religious  ;  and 
no  lovers  of  the  art  have  gone  farther  astrav  than 
the  pious  and  the  devout. 

AVhither  then  shall  we  turn  for  that  union  of 
qualifications  which  must  necessarily  exist  before 
the  decisions  of  a  critic  can  be  of  absolute  value  ? 
For  a  mind  at  once  poetical  and  philoso])hical ; 
for  a  critic  whose  affections  are  as  free  and  kindly 
as  the  spirit  of  society,  and  whose  understanding 
is  severe  as  that  of  dispassionate  government  ? 
Where  are  we  to  look  for  that  initiatory  com- 
posure of  mind  which  no  selfishness  can  disturb  ; 
for  a  natural  sensibility  that  has  been  tutored  in- 
to con-ectness  without  losing  anything  of  its  quick- 
ness ;  and  for  active  faculties,  capable  of  answering 
the  demands  which  an  Author  of  original  imagi- 
nation  shall  make  upon  them,  associated  with  a 
judgment  that  cannot  be  duped  into  admiration  by 
augiit  that  is  unworthy  of  it  ?  Among  those,  and 
those  only,  who,  never  having  suffered  their 
youtiiful  love  of  poetry  to  remit  much  of  its  force, 
liave  applied  to  the  consideration  of  the  laws  ol 
this  art  the  best  power  of  their  understandings. 
At  the  same  time  it  must  be  observed,  that,  as 
this  Class  c(>iiii)rehends  the  only  judgments  which 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       243 

are  trustworthy,  so  does  it  include  the  most  erro- 
neous and  perverse.  For  to  be  mistaught  is 
worse  than  to  be  untaught ;  and  no  perverseness 
equals  that  which  is  supported  hj  system,  no  er- 
rors are  so  difficult  to  root  out  as  those  which  the 
understanding  has  pledged  its  credit  to  uphold. 
In  this  class  are  contained  censors,  who,  if  they  be 
pleased  with  what  is  good,  are  pleased  with  it 
onl}'^  by  imperfect  glimpses,  and  upon  false  princi- 
ples ;  who,  should  they  generalize  rightly  to  a 
certain  point,  are  sure  to  suffer  for  it  in  the  end  ; 
who,  if  they  stumble  upon  a  sound  rule,  are  fet- 
tered by  misapplying  it,  or  by  straining  it  too  far, 
being  incapable  of  perceiving  when  it  ought  to 
yield  to  one  of  higher  order.  In  it  are  found  crit- 
ics too  petulant  to  be  passive  to  a  genuine  poet, 
and  too  feeble  to  grapple  with  him  ;  —  men  who 
take  upon  them  to  report  of  the  course  which  he 
holds  whom  they  are  utterly  unable  to  accompany, 
—  confounded  if  he  turn  quick  upon  the  wing, 
dismayed  if  he  soar  steadily  "  into  tlie  region  "  ;  — 
men  of  palsied  imaginations  and  indurated  hearts  ; 
in  whose  minds  all  healthy  action  is  languid,  who 
therefore  feed  as  the  many  direct  them,  or,  with 
the  many,  are  greedy  after  vicious  provocatives ; 
— judges,  whose  censure  is  auspicious,  and  whose 
praise  ominous  !  In  this  class  meet  together  the 
two  extremes  of  best  and  worst. 

The  observations  presented  in  the  foregoing  se- 
ries are  of  too  ungracious  a  nature  to  have  been 


iJ44  APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

made  without  reluctance ;  and,  were  it  only  on 
this  account,  I  would  invite  the  reader  to  trv  them 
by  the  test  of  comprehensive  experience.  If  the 
number  of  judges  who  can  be  confidently  relied 
upon  be  in  reality  so  small,  it  ought  to  follow  that 
partial  notice  only,  or  neglect,  perhaps  long  con- 
tinued, or  attention  wholly  inadequate  to  their 
merits,  must  have  been  the  fate  of  most  works 
in  the  higher  departments  of  Poetry;  and  that, 
on  the  other  hand,  numerous  productions  have 
blazed  into  popularity,  and  have  passed  away, 
leaving  scarcely  a  trace  behind  them  :  it  will  be 
further  found,  that  when  Authors  shall  have  at 
length  raised  themselves  into  general  admiration, 
and  maintained  their  ground,  errors  and  preju- 
dices have  prevailed  concerning  their  genius  and 
their  works,  which  the  few  who  are  conscious  of 
those  errors  and  prejudices  would  deplore,  if  tliey 
were  not  recompensed  by  perceiving  that  there 
are  select  Spirits  for  whom  it  is  ordained  that 
their  fame  shall  be  in  the  world  an  existence  like 
that  of  Virtue,  which  owes  its  being  to  the  strug- 
gles it  makes,  and  its  vigor  to  the  enemies  whom 
it  provokes; — a  vivacious  quality,  ever  doomed 
to  meet  with  opposition,  and  still  triumphing  over 
it ;  and,  from  the  nature  of  its  dominion,  incapable 
of  being  brought  to  the  sad  conclusion  of  Alexan- 
der, when  he  wept  that  there  were  no  more 
vorldii  for  him  to  conquer. 

Let  us  take  a  hasty  retrospect  of  the  poetical 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       245 

literature  of  this  country  for  the  greater  part  of 
the  last  two  centuries,  and  see  if  the  facts  support 
these  inferen^'es. 

Who  is  there  that  now  reads  the  "  Creation  "  of 
Dubartas  ?  Yet  all  Europe  once  resounded  with 
his  praise  ;  he  was  caressed  by  kings  ;  and,  when 
his  Poem  was  translated  into  oar  language,  the 
Faery  Queene  faded  before  it.  The  name  of 
Spenser,  whose  genius  is  of  a  higher  order  than 
even  that  of  Ariosto,  is  at  this  day  scarcely  known 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  British  Isles.  And  if  the 
value  of  his  works  is  to  be  estimated  from  the  at- 
tention now  paid  to  them  by  his  countrymen, 
compared  with  that  which  they  bestow  on  those 
of  some  other  waiters,  it  must  be  pronounced 
small  indeed. 

"  The  laurel,  meed  of  mighty  conquerors 
And  poets  sage"  — 

are  his  own  words ;  but  his  wisdom  has,  in  this 
particular,  been  his  worst  enemy :  while  its  oppo- 
site, whether  in  the  shape  of  folly  or  madness,  has 
been  their  best  friend.  But  he  was  a  great  pow- 
er, and  bears  a  high  name  :  the  laurel  has  been 
awarded  to  him. 

A  dramatic  Author,  if  he  write  for  the  stage, 
must  adapt  himself  to  the  taste  of  the  audience,  or 
they  will  not  endure  him ;  accordingly  the  mighty 
genius  of  Shakespeare  was  listened  to.  The  peo- 
ple  were   delighted :    but  I   am    not   sufficiently 


246       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

fersed  in  stage  antiquities  to  determine  whether 
they  did  not  flock  as  eagerly  to  the  representation 
of  many  pieces  of  contemporary  Authors,  wholly 
undeserving  to  appear  upon  the  same  boai'ds. 
Had  tliere  been  a  formal  contest  for  superioi-ity 
among  dramatic  writers,  that  Shakespeare,  like  his 
predecessors  Sophocles  and  Euripides,  would  have 
often  been  subject  to  the  mortification  of  seeing 
the  prize  adjudged  to  sorry  competitors,  becomes 
too  probable,  when  we  reflect  that  the  admirers 
of  Settle  and  Shadwell  were,  in  a  later  age,  as 
numerous,  and  reckoned  as  respectable  in  point  of 
talent,  as  those  of  Dryden.  At  all  CA'ents,  that 
Shakespeai'e  stooped  to  accommodate  himself  to  the 
People,  is  sufficiently  apparent ;  and  one  of  the 
most  striking  proofs  of  his  almost  omni})Otent  ge- 
nius is,  that  he  could  turn  to  such  glorious  pur- 
pose those  materials  which  the  prepossessions  of 
the  age  compelled  him  to  make  use  of  Yet  even 
this  marvellous  skill  appears  not  to  have  been 
enough  to  prevent  his  rivals  from  having  some 
advantage  over  him  in  public  estimation  ;  else  how 
can  we  account  for  passages  and  scenes  that  exist 
in  his  works,  unless  upon  a  supposition  that  some 
->f  the  grossest  of  them,  a  fact  which  in  my  own 
mind  I  have  no  doubt  of,  were  foisted  in  by  the 
Players,  for  the  gratification  of  the  many  ? 

But  that  his  Works,  whatever  might  be  their 
reception  upon  the  stage,  made  but  little  impres- 
sion upon  tlu;  ruling  Intellects  of  the  time,  may  be 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       247 

inferred  from  the  fact  that  Lord  Bacon,  in  his 
multifarious  writings,  nowhere  either  quotes  or 
alludes  to  him.*  His  dramatic  excellence  enabled 
him  to  resume  possession  of  the  stage  after  the 
Restoration  ;  but  Dryden  tells  us  that  in  his  time 
two  of  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were 
acted  for  one  of  Shakespeare's.  And  so  faint 
an(i  limited  was  the  perception  of  the  poetic  beau- 
ties of  his  dramas  in  the  time  of  Pope,  that, 
in  his  Edition  of  the  Plays,  with  a  view  of  ren- 
dering to  the  general  reader  a  necessary  service, 
he  pi'inted  between  inverted  commas  those  pas- 
sages which  he  thought  most  worthy  of  notice. 

At  this  day,  the  French  Critics  have  abated 
nothing  of  their  aversion  to  this  darling  of  our 
Nation :  "  the  English,  with  their  bouffon  de 
Shakespeare,"  is  as  famihar  an  expression  among 
them  as  in  the  time  of  Voltaire.  Baron  Grimm 
is  the  only  French  writer  who  seems  to  have 
perceived  his  infinite  superiority  to  the  first 
names  of  the  French  Theatre ;  an  advantage 
which  the  Parisian  Critic  owed  to  his  German 
blood  and  German  education.  The  most  en- 
lightened Italians,  though  well   acquainted   with 


*  The  learned  Hakewill  (a  third  edition  of  whose  book  bears 
<late  1635),  writing  to  refute  the  eiTor  "  touching  Natiire's  per- 
petual and  universal  decay,"  cites  tilumphantly  the  names  of 
Ariosto,  Tasso,  Bartas,  and  Spenser,  as  instances  that  poetic 
eenius  had  not  degenerated;  but  he  makes  no  mention  of 
Siuikespeare. 


248       APPENDIX,  PRKFACES,  ETC. 

our  language,  are  wholly  incompetent  to  meas- 
ui'e  the  proportions  of  Shakespeare.  The  Ger- 
mans only  of  foreign  nations  are  approaching 
tOAvards  a  knowledoje  and  feelinsf  of  what  l.e 
is.  In  some  respects  they  have  acquired  a 
superiority  over  the  fellow-countrymen  of  the 
Poet :  for  amonGf  us  it  is  a  current,  T  miifht 
say  an  established  opinion,  that  Shakespeare  is 
justly  praised  when  he  is  pronounced  to  be  "  a 
wild,  irregular  genius,  in  whom  great  faults  are 
compensated  by  great  beauties."  How  long  may 
it  be  before  this  misconception  passes  away,  and 
it  becomes  universally  acknowledged  that  the 
judgment  of  Shakespeare  in  the  selection  of  his 
materials,  and  in  the  manner  in  which  he  has 
made  them,  heterogeneous  as  they  often  are,  con- 
stitute a  unity  of  their  own,  and  contribute  all  to 
one  great  end,  is  not  less  admirable  than  his 
imagination,  his  invention,  and  his  intuitive 
knowledge  of  human  nature? 

There  is  extant  a  small  volume  of  miscellane- 
ous poems,  in  which  Shakespeare  expresses  his  own 
feelings  in  his  own  person.  It  is  not  dilRcult  to 
conceive  that  the  Editor,  George  Steevens,  should 
have  been  insensible  to  the  beauties  of  one  portion 
of  that  volume,  the  vSonnets  ;  though  in  no  part 
of  the  writings  of  this  Poet  is  found,  in  an  equal 
iDmpass,  a  greater  number  of  exquisite  feelings 
felicitously  ex])resscd.  But,  from  regard  to  the 
Critic's  own  credit,  he  would  not  have,  v('ntured 


APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 


249 


to  talk  of  an*  act  of  Parliament  not  being  strong 
enough  to  compel  the  perusal  of  those  little  pieces, 
if  he  had  not  known  that  the  people  of  England 
were  ignorant  of  the  treasures  contained  in  them : 
and  if  he  had  not,  moreover,  shared  the  too  com- 
mon propensity  of  human  nature  to  exult  over  a 
sui)posed  fall  into  the  mire  of  a  genius  whom  he 
had  been  compelled  to  regard  with  admiration,  as 
an  inmate  of  the  celestial  regions,  —  "there  sit- 
tins:  where  he  durst  not  soar." 

Nine  years  before  the  death  of  Shakespeare, 
Milton  was  born  ;  and  early  in  life  he  published 
several  small  Poems,  which,  though  on  their  first 
appearance  they  were  praised  by  a  iaw  of  the 
judicious,  were  afterwards  neglected  to  that  de- 
gree, that  Pope  in  his  youth  could  borrow  from 
them  without  risk  of  its  being  known.  AVhether 
these  Poems  are  at  this  day  justly  appreciated,  I 
will  not  undertake  to  decide  :  nor  would  it  imply 
a  severe  reflection  upon  the  mass  of  readers  to 
suppose  the  contrary  ;  seeing  that  a  man  of  the 
acknowledged  genius  of  Voss,  the  German  poet, 
could  suffer  their  spirit  to  evaporate  ;  and  could 
change  their  character,  as  is  done  in  the  translation 


*  This  flippant  insensibility  was  publicly  reprehended  by 
Mr.  Coleridge  in  a  course  of  Lectures  upon  Poetry  given  by 
him  at  the  Royal  Institution.  For  the  various  merits  of 
thought  and  language  in  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  see  Numbers 
27,  29,  30,  32,  33,  54,  64,  66,  68,  73,  76,  86,  91,  92,  03,  97,  98, 
105, 107,  108, 109,  111,  113, 114, 116, 117, 129,  and  many  ethers 


250       APPENDIX,  PRKFACES,  ETC. 

made  by  him  of  the  most  popular  of  those  piece* 
At  all  events,  it  is  certain  that  these  Poems  of 
Milton  are  now  much  read,  and  loudly  praised  ; 
yet  were  they  little  heard  of  till  more  than  150 
years  after  their  publication  ;  and  of  the  Sonnets, 
Dr.  Jf>hnson,  as  appears  from  Boswell's  Life  of 
him,  was  in  the  habit  of  thinking  and  speaking  as 
contemptuously  as  Steevens  wrote  upon  those  of 
Shakespeare. 

About  the  time  when  the  Pindaric  Odes  of 
Cowley  and  his  imitators,  and  tlie  productions  of 
that  class  of  curious  thinkers  whom  Dr.  Johnson 
has  strangely  styled  Metaphysical  Poets,  were 
beginning  to  lose  something  of  that  extravagant 
admiration  wiiich  they  had  excited,  the  Paradise 
Lost  made  its  appearance.  "  Fit  audience  iind, 
tiiough  few,"  was  the  petition  addressed  by  the 
Poet  to  his  inspiring  Muse.  I  have  said  else- 
where that  he  gained  more  than  he  asked  ;  this  I 
believe  to  be  true  ;  but  Dr.  Johnson  has  fallen  into 
a  gross  mistake  when  he  attempts  to  prove,  by  the 
sale  of  the  work,  that  Milton's  Countrymen  were 
'■'■jnst  to  it  "  upon  its  first  appearance.  Thiiteen 
hundred  copies  were  sold  in  two  years  ;  an  uncom- 
mon example,  he  asserts,  of  the  prevalence  of  geniua 
in  opposition  to  so  much  recent  enmity  as  Milton's 
public  conduct  had  excited.  But  be  it  remem- 
bered, that,  if  Milton's  political  and  religious  o[)in- 
ions,  and  tiie  manner  in  which  he  announced  tln-m, 
had  raised  him  many  enemies,  tliey  had   [trocured 


APPENDIX,  PKEFACES,  ETC.       251 

him  numerous  friends  ;  wlio,  as  all  personal  danger 
was  passed  away  at  the  time  of  publication,  would 
be  eager  to  procure  the  master-work  of  a  man 
whom  they  revered,  and  whom  they  would  be 
proud  of  praising.  Take,  from  the  number  of 
purchasers,  persons  of  this  class,  and  also  those 
who  wished  to  possess  the  Poem  as  a  religious 
work,  and  but  few  I  fear  would  be  left  who  sought 
for  it  on  account  of  its  poetical  merits.  The 
demand  did  not  immediately  increase  ;  "  for,"  says 
Dr.  Johnson,  "  many  more  readei's "  (he  means 
persons  in  th&hitbit  of  reading  poetry)  "  than  were 
supplied  at  first,  the  Nation  did  not  afford."  How 
careless  must  a^nitci  be  who  can  make  this  asser- 
tion in  the  face  ot  so  many  existing  title-pages  to 
belie  it  !  Turning  ti.  my  own  shelves,  I  find  the 
folio  of  Cowley,  seventh  edition,  1681.  A  book 
near  it  is  Flatman's  Poems,  fourth  edition,  1686 ; 
Waller,  fifth  edition,  same  date.  The  Poems  of 
Norris  of  Bemerton  not  long  after  went,  I  believe, 
through  nine  editions.  "What  further  demand 
there  might  be  for  these  works  I  do  not  know  ;  but 
I  well  remember,  that,  twenty-five  years  ago,  the 
booksellers'  stalls  in  London  swarmed  wath  the 
folios  of  Cowley.  This  is  not  mentioned  in  dispar- 
agement of  that  able  writer  and  amiable  man  ; 
but  merely  to  show  that,  if  Milton's  work  were 
not  more  read,  it  was  not  because  readers  did  not 
exist  at  the  time.  The  early  editions  of  the  Para- 
»lite  Lost  were  printed  in  a  shape  which  allowed 


252  APnCNDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

them  to  be  sold  at  a  low  price,  yet  only  threa 
thousand  copies  of  the  Work  were  sold  in  eleven 
years  ;  and  the  Nation,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  had 
been  satisfied  from  1623  to  1664,  that  is,  forty-one 
yearSjWith  only  two  editions  of  the  Works  of  Shake- 
speare, which  probably  did  not  together  make  one 
thousand  copies ;  facts  adduced  by  the  critic  to 
prove  the  "  paucity  of  Readers."  —  There  were 
readers  in  multitudes  ;  but  their  money  went  for 
other  purposes,  as  their  admiration  was  fixed  else- 
where. We  are  authorized,  then,  to  atllrm,  that 
the  reception  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  and  the  slow 
progress  of  its  fame,  are  proofs  as  striking  as 
can  be  desired,  that  the  positions  which  I  am  at- 
tempting to  establish  ai-e  not  erroneous.* —  How 
amusing  to  shape  to  one's  self  such  a  critique 
as  a  Wit  of  Charles's  days,  or  a  Lord  of  the  Mis- 
cellanies or  trading  Journalist  of  King  William's 
time,  would  have  brought  forth,  if  lie  had  set 
his  faculties  industriously  to  work  upon  this  Po- 
em, everywhere  impregnated  with  original  ex- 
eellen('e. 

So  stiange  indeed  are  the  obliquities  of  admira- 
tion, that  they  whose  opinions  are  much  inlluenced 
by  authority  will  often  be  tempted  to  think  that 

*  Huglies  is  express  upon  this  subject:  in  his  dedication  ol 
SpcMBcr'B  Works  to  Lord  Somcrs,  he  writes  tlius :  "  It  was  yoiur 
Lordsliiji's  encmiraging  ii  beautiful  edition  of  I'aradise  Lost 
♦hat  first  brought  llmt  incomparable  Poem  to  be  generally 
Known  and  esteunied." 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       253 


there  are  no  fixed  principles*  in  human  nature  i'nr 
this  art  to  rest  upon.  I  have  been  honored  by 
being  permitted  to  peruse  in  MS.  a  tract  composed 
between  the  period  of  the  Revolution  and  the 
close  of  that  century.  It  is  the  Work  of  an  Eng- 
lish Peer  of  high  accomplishments,  its  object  to 
form  the  character  and  direct  the  studies  of  his  son. 
Perhaps  nov\here  does  a  more  beautiful  treatise  of 
the  kind  exist.  The  good  sense  and  wisdom  of 
the  thoughts,  the  delicacy  of  the  feelings,  and  the 
charm  of  the  style,  are,  thioughout,  equally  con- 
spicuous. Yet  the  Author,  selecting  among  the 
Poets  of  his  own  country  those  whom  he  deems 
most  worthy  of  his  son's  perusal,  particularizes 
only  Lord  Rochester,  Sir  John  Denhara,  and 
Cowley.  Writing  about  the  same  time,  Shaftes- 
bury, an  author  at  present  unjustly  depreciated, 
describes  the  English  Muses  as  only  yet  lisping  in 
their  cradles. 

The  arts  by  which  Pope,  soon  afterwards,  con- 
trived to  procure  to  himself  a  more  general  and  a 
higher  reputation  than  perhaps  any  English  Poet 
ever  attained  during;  his  lifetime,  are  known  to  the 
judicious.  And  as  well  known  is  it  to  them,  that 
the  undue  exertion  of  those  arts  is  the  cause  why 
Pope  has  for  some  time  held  a  rank  in  literature, 

*  This  opinion  seems  actually  to  have  been  entertained  by 
Adam  Smith,  the  worst  critic,  David  Hume  not  excepted,  that 
Scotland,  a  soil  to  which  this  sort  of  weed  seems  natural,  has 
jixiduced. 


254      APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

to  which,  if  he  had  not  been  seduced  by  an  over- 
love  of  immediate  popularity,  and  had  confided 
more  in  his  native  genius,  he  never  could  have 
descended.  He  bewitched  the  nation  by  his  mel- 
ody, and  dazzled  it  by  his  polished  style,  and  was 
himself  blinded  by  his  own  success.  Having  wan- 
dered from  humanity  in  his  Eclogues,  with  boyish 
inexperience,  the  praise  which  these  compositions 
obtained  tempted  him  into  a  belief  that  Nature 
was  not  to  be  trusted,  at  least  in  Pastoral  Poetry. 
To  prove  this  by  example,  he  put  his  friend  Gay 
upon  writing  those  Eclogues  which  their  author 
intended  to  be  burlesque.  The  instigator  of  the 
work,  and  his  admirers,-  could  perceive  in  them 
nothing  but  what  was  ridiculous.  Nevertheless, 
though  these  Poems  contain  some  detestable  pas- 
sages, the  effect,  as  Dr.  Johnson  well  observes,  "  of 
reality  and  truth  became  conspicuous,  even  when 
the  intention  was  to  show  them  grovelling  and  de- 
graded." The  Pastorals,  ludicrous  to  such  as  prid- 
ed themselves  upon  their  refinement,  in  spite  of 
those  disgusting  passages,  "became  popular,  and 
were  read  with  delight,  as  just  representations  of 
rural  manners  and  occupations." 

Sometliing  less  than  sixty  years  after  the  publi- 
f-ation  of  the  Paradise  Lost  appeared  Thomson's 
^Vinter  ;  which  was  speedily  followed  by  his  other 
nScjisous.  It  is  a  work  of  inspiration  ;  much  of  it  is 
written  from  himself,  and  nobly  from  himself.  How 
was  il  received  ?  "  It  was  no  sooner  read,"  says  one 


APPENDIX,    PREB'ACES,    ETC.  255 

sf  his  contemporary  biographers,  "than  universally 
admired :  those  only  excepted  who  had  not  been 
used  to  feel  or  to  look  for  anything  in  poetry, 
beyond  a  point  of  satirical  or  epigrammatic  wit,  a 
smart  antithesis  richly  trimmed  with  rhyme,  or  the 
softness  of  an  elegiac  complaint.  To  such  his  manly 
classical  spirit  could  not  readily  commend  itself; 
till,  after  a  more  attentive  perusal,  they  had  got  the 
better  of  their  prejudices,  and  either  acquired  or 
affected  a  truer  taste.  A  few  others  stood  aloof, 
merely  because  they  had  long  before  fixed  the  arti- 
cles of  their  poetical  creed,  and  resigned  themselves 
to  an  absolute  despair  of  ever  seeing  anything 
new  and  original.  These  were  somewhat  morti- 
fied to  find  their  notions  disturbed  by  the  appear- 
ance of  a  poet,  who  seemed  to  owe  nothing  but  to 
nature  and  his  own  genius.  But,  in  a  short  time, 
the  applause  became  unanimous  ;  every  one  won- 
dering how  so  many  pictures,  and  pictures  so 
familiar,  should  have  moved  them  but  faintly  to 
what  they  felt  in  his  descriptions.  His  digres- 
sions too,  the  overflowings  of  a  tender,  benevolent 
heart,  charmed  the  reader  no  less  ;  leaving  him 
in  doubt,  whether  he  should  more  admire  the 
Poet  or  love   the  Man." 

This  case  appears  to  bear  strongly  against  us ; 
but  we  must  distinguish  between  wonder  and  legiti- 
mate admiration.  The  subject  of  the  Avork  is  the 
changes  produced  in  the  appearances  of  nature  by 
the  revolution  of  the  year :  and,  by  undej-taking 


256       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

to  write  in  verse,  Thomson  pledged  himself  to 
treat  his  subject  as  became  a  Poet.  Now  it  is  re- 
markable that,  excepting  the  nocturnal  Reverie 
of  Lady  Winchilsea,  and  a  passage  or  two  in  the 
Windsor  Forest  of  Pope,  the  poetry  of  the  period 
intervening  between  the  publication  of  the  Para- 
dise Lost  and  the  Seasons  does  not  contain  a  sin- 
gle new  image  of  external  nature ;  and  scarcely 
presents  a  familiar  one  from  which  it  can  be  in- 
ferred that  the  eye  of  the  Poet  had  been  steadily 
fixed  upon  his  object,  much  less  that  his  feelings 
had  urged  him  to  work  upon  it  in  the  spirit  of 
genuine  imagination.  To  what  alow  state  knowl- 
edge of  the  most  obvious  and  important  phenom- 
ena had  sunk,  is  evident  from  tlie  style  in  which 
Dryden  has  executed  a  description  of  Night  in 
one  of  his  Tragedies,  and  Pope  his  translation  of 
the  celebrated  moonliglit  scene  in  the  Iliad.  A 
blind  man,  in  the  habit  of  attending  accurately  to 
descriptions  casually  dropped  from  the  lips  of 
those  around  iiim,  might  easily  depict  these  ap- 
pearances with  more  truth.  Di'yden's  lines  are 
vague,  bombastic,  and  senseless  ;  *  those  of  Pope, 

*  CoiiTEs  alone  in  a  night-gmim. 

All  things  are  hushed  as  Nature's  self  lay  dead; 
The  mountains  seem  to  nod  their  drowsy  head. 
The  little  Birds  in  dreams  their  songs  repeat, 
And  sleeping  Flowers  beneath  the  Night-dew  sweat: 
Even  I.ust  and  Envy  sleep;  yet  Love  denies 
Ke»t  tfl  my  soul,  and  slumber  to  my  eyes. 

Dkyden's  Indian  Emperor. 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       257 

tliough  he  had  Homer  to  guide  him,  are  through- 
out false  and  contradictory.  The  verses  of  Dryden, 
once  highly  celebrated,  are  forgotten ;  those  of 
Pope  still  retain  their  hold  upon  public  estimation, 
—  nay,  there  is  not  a  passage  of  descriptive  po- 
etry, which  at  this  day  finds  so  many  and  such  ar- 
dent admirers.  Strange  to  think  of  an  enthusiast, 
as  may  have  been  the  case  with  thousands,  recit- 
ing those  verses  under  the  cope  of  a  moonlight  sky, 
without  having  his  raptures  in  the  least  disturbed 
by  a  suspicion  of  their  absurdity  !  —  If  these  two 
.distinguished  writers  could  habitually  think  that 
the  visible  universe  was  of  so  little  consequence  to  a 
poet,  that  it  was  scarcely  necessary  for  him  to  cast 
his  eyes  upon  it,  we  may  be  assured  that  those 
passages  of  the  elder  poets  which  faithfully  and 
poetically  describe  the  phenomena  of  nature  were 
not  at  that  time  holden  in  much  estimation  and 
that  there  was  little  accurate  attention  paid  to 
those  appearances. 

Wonder  is  the  natural  product  of  Ignorance  ; 
and  as  the  soil  was  in  such  good  condition  at  the 
time  of  the  publication  of  the  Seasons,  the  crop 
was  doubtless  abundant.  Neither  individuals  nor 
nations  become  corrupt  all  at  once,  nor  are  they 
enlightened  in  a  moment.  Thomson  was  an  in- 
spired poet,  but  he  could  not  work  miracles ;  iu 
cases  where  the  art  of  seein<T  had  in  some  degree 
been  learned,  the  teacher*  would  further  the  proii- 

>foi..  V.  17 


258       APrKNDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

ciency  of  his  pufjlls,  but  he  could  do  little  more  ; 
though  so  far  does  vanity  assist  men  in  acts  of 
self-deception,  that  many  would  often  fancy  they 
recognized  a  likeness  when  they  knew  nothing  of 
the  orij^iual.  Having  shown  that  much  of  what 
his  biographer  deemed  genuine  admiration  must 
in  fact  have  been  blind  wonderment,  how  is  the 
rest  to  be  accounted  for  ?  —  Thomson  was  fortu- 
nate in  the  very  title  of  his  Poem,  which  seemed 
to  bring  it  home  to  the  prepared  sympathies  of 
every  one :  in  the  next  place,  notwithstanding 
his  high  powers,  he  writes  a  vicious  style  ;  and 
his  false  ornaments  are  exactly  of  that  kind  which 
would  be  most  likely  to  strike  the  undiscerning. 
He  likewise  abounds  with  sentimental  common- 
places, that,  from  the  manner  in  which  they  were 
brouglit  forward,  bore  an  imposing  air  of  novelty. 
In  any  well-used  copy  of  the  Seasons  the  book 
generally  opens  of  itself  with  the  rhapsody  on 
love,  or  with  one  of  the  stories  (perhaps  Damon 
and  Musidora)  ;  these  also  are  prominent  in  our 
voUt^ctions  of  Extracts,  and  are  the  parts  of  his 
Woik,  which,  after  all,  were  probably  most 
efficient  in  first  recommending  the  author  to 
general  notice.  Pope,  repaying  praises  which  he 
had  received,  and  wishing  to  extol  him  to 
tlie  highest,  only  styles  him  ''  an  elegant  and 
philosophical  Poet "  ;  nor  are  we  able  to  collect 
any  unquestionable  proofs  that  the  true  charac- 
feristics   uf  Thomson's    genius  as  an  imaginative 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC 


259 


poei  *  were  perceived,  till  the  elder  Warton,  almost 
forty  years  after  the  publication  of  the  Seasons, 
pointed  them  out  by  a  note  in  his  Essay  on  tlie  Life 
and  A^ritings  of  Pope.  In  the  Castle  of  Indolence 
(of  which  Gray  speaks  so  coldly)  these  character- 
istics were  almost  as  conspicuously  displayed,  and 
in  verse  more  harmonious  and  diction  more  pure. 
Yet  that  fine  Poem  was  neglected  on  its  appear- 
ance, and  is  at  this  day  the  deliglit  only  of  a 
few. 

When  Thomson  died,  Collins  breathed  forth  his 
regrets  in  an  Elegiac  Poem,  in  which  he  pronoun- 
ces a  poetical  curse  upon  him  who  should  regard 
with  insensibility  the  place  where  the  Poet's  re- 
mains were  deposited.  The  Poems  of  the  mourn- 
er himself  have  now  passed  through  innumerable 
editions,  and  are  universally  known  ;  but  if,  when 
Collins  died,  the  same  kind  of  imprecation  had 
been  pronounced  by  a  surviving  admirer,  small  is 
the  number  whom  it  would  not  have  compre- 
hended. The  notice  which  his  poems  attained 
during  his  lifetime  was  so  small,  and  of  course  the 
sale  so  insignificant,  that  not  long  before  his  death 
he  d'^emed  it  right  to  repay  to  the  bookseller  the 

*  Since  these  observations  upon  Thomson  were  written,  I 
have  perused  the  second  edition  of  his  Seasons,  and  find  that 
even  that  does  not  contain  the  most  striking  passages  which 
Warton  points  out  for  admiration:  these,  with  other  improve- 
ments, throughout  the  whole  work,  must  have  beer  a  ided  at 
a  later  period. 


260       APrEKDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

pum  wMch  he  had  advanced  for  them,  and  threw 
the  edition  into  the  fire. 

Next  in  importance  to  the  Seasons  of  Thom- 
son, though  at  considerable  distance  from  that 
work  in  order  of  time,  come  the  Reliques  of  An- 
cient Enghsh  Poetry ;  collected,  new-modelled, 
and  in  many  instances  (if  such  a  contradiction  in 
terras  may  be  used)  composed  by  the  Editor,  Dr. 
Percy.  This  work  did  not  steal  silently  into  the 
world,  as  is  evident  from  the  number  of  legendary 
tales  that  appeared  not  long  after  its  publication  ; 
and  had  been  modelled,  as  the  authors  jjcrsuaded 
themselves,  after  the  old  Ballad.  The  Compila- 
tion was  however  ill  suited  to  the  then  existing 
taste  of  city  society  ;  and  Dr.  Johnson,  'mid  the 
little  senate  to  which  he  gave  laws,  was  not 
sparing  in  his  exertions  to  make  it  an  object  of 
contempt.  The  critic  triumphed,  the  legendary 
imitators  were  deservedly  disregarded,  and,  as 
undeservedly,  their  ill-imitated  models  sank,  in 
this  country,  into  temporary  neglect ;  while  Riir- 
ger,  and  other  able  writers  of  Germany,  were 
translating,  or  imitating,  these  Reliques,  and  com- 
posing, with  the  aid  of  inspiration  thence  derived, 
Poems  which  are  the  delight  of  the  German  na- 
tion. Dr.  Percy  was  so  abashed  by  tlie  ridicule 
flung  upon  his  labors  from  the  ignorance  and  in- 
sensibility of  the  persons  with  whom  he  lived,  that 
lliough  while  he  was  writing  under  a  mask  he  had 
not  wanted  resolution  to  Ibllow  his  genius  into  the 


APPENDIX,    PKEi-ACES,    ETC.  2G1 

regions  of  true  simplicitv  and  genuine  pathos  (as 
is  evinced  by  the  exquisite  ballad  of  Sir  Cauline 
and  by  many  other  pieces),  yet  when  he  appeared 
in  his  own  person  and  character  as  a  poetical 
writer,  he  adopted,  as  in  the  tale  of  the  Hermit 
of  Warkworth,  a  diction  scarcely  in  any  one  of  its 
features  distinguishable  from  the  vague,  the  glos- 
sy, and  unfeeling  language  of  his  day.  I  mention 
this  remarkable  fact  *  with  regret,  esteeming  the 
genius  of  Dr.  Percy  in  this  kind  of  writing  supe- 
rior to  that  of  any  other  man  by  whom  in  modern 
times  it  has  been  cultivated.  That  even  Burger 
(to  whom  Klopstock  gave,  in  my  hearing,  a  com- 
mendation which  he  denied  to  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler,  pronouncing  him  to  be  a  genuine  poet,  and 
one  of  the  few  among  the  Germans  whose  worka 
would  last)  had  not  the  fine  sensibility  of  Percy, 
might  be  shown  from  many  passages,  in  which  he 
has  deserted  his  original  only  to  go  astray.  For 
example. 

Now  daye  was  gone,  and  night  was  come, 
And  all  were  fast  asleepe, 

*  Shenstone,  in  his  Schoolmistress,  gives  a  still  more  re- 
markable instance  of  this  timidity.  On  its  first  appearance, 
(see  D'Israeli's  2d  Series  of  the  Curiosities  of  Literature,)  tho 
Poem  was  accompanied  with  an  absurd  prose  commentaiy, 
sliowing,  as  indeed  some  incongnaous  expressions  in  tlie  text 
imply,  that  the  whole  was  intended  for  burlesque.  In  subse- 
quent editions,  the  commentary  was  dropped,  and  the  People 
have  since  continued  to  read  in  seriousness,  doing  for  the  Au 
thor  what  he  had  not  courage  openly  to  venture  upon  him- 
.«elf. 


2fi2  APPENDIX.    PTtKKACKSj    ETC. 

All  save  the  Lady  Emeline, 
Wlio  sate  in  hei*  bowre  to  weepe: 

And  soone  she  heard  her  true  Love's  vcaoB 
Low  whispering  at  the  walle, 
Awake,  awake,  my  dear  Ladye, 
'Tis  I  thy  true-love  call. 

Which  is  thus  tricked  out  and  dilated : 

Als  nun  die  Nacht  Gebirg'  und  Thai 

Vennummt  in  Rubenschatten, 

Und  Hochburgs  Lainpen  iiberall 

Schon  ausgefliinmcrt  batten, 

Und  alles  tief  entschlafen  war; 

Doch  nnr  das  Fraulein  inimerdar, 

Voil  Fieberangst,  noch  wachte, 

Und  seinen  Ritter  dachte: 

Da  horch !  Ein  siisser  Liebeston 

Kam  leis'  empor  geflogen. 

"  Ho,  Trudchen,  ho!  I>a  bin  ich  schon! 

Frisch  anf !     Dich  angezogen!  " 

But  from  humble  ballads  we  rausi  ascend  tc 
heroics. 

All  hail,  Macpherson !  hail  to  thee,  Sire  of  Os- 
sian !  The  Phantom  was  begotten  by  the  snug 
(-ml)race  of  an  impudent  Highlander  upon  a  cloud 
of  tradition,  —  it  travelled  southward,  where  it  M'as: 
greeted  with  acclamation,  and  the  thin  Consistence 
took  its  course  through  Europe,  upon  the  breath 
.of  ])opular  appl'uisc.  The  Editor  of  the  "  Rel- 
iques "  liad  indirectly  preferred  a  claim  to  the 
praise  of  invention,  by  not  concealing  that  his  sup- 
plementary labors  were  consid('raI)l»^!  how  selfish 
his  conduct,  contrasted  with  that  of  the  disinter- 


APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC.  2ti3 

ested  Gael,  who,  like  Lear,  gives  his  kingdom 
away,  and  is  content  to  become  a  pensioner  upon 
his  own  issue  for  a  beggarly  pittance  !  —  Open  this 
far-famed  Book  !  —  I  have  done  so  at  random, 
and  the  beginning  of  the  "Epic  Poem  Temora,"  in 
eight  Books,  presents  itself.  "  The  blue  waves  of 
Ullin  roll  in  light.  The  green  hills  are  covered 
with  day.  Trees  shake  their  dusky  heads  in  the 
breeze.  Gray  torrents  pour  their  noisy  streams. 
Two  green  hills  with  aged  oaks  surround  a  nar- 
row plain.  The  blue  course  of  a  stream  is  there. 
On  its  banks  stood  Cairbar  of  Atha.  His  spear 
supports  the  king ;  the  red  eyes  of  his  fear  are 
Baxl.  Cormac  rises  on  his  soul  with  all  his  a:hasfc- 
ly  wounds."  Precious  memorandums  from  the 
pocket-book  of  the  blind  Ossian  ! 

If  it  be  unbecoming,  as  I  acknowledge  that  for 
the  most  part  it  is,  to  speak  disrespectfully  of 
Works  that  have  enjoyed  for  a  length  of  time  a 
widely  spread  reputation,  without  at  the  same 
time  producing  irrefragable  proofs  of  their  unwor- 
thiness,  let  me  be  forgiven  upon  this  occasion.  — ■ 
Having  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  and 
reared  in  a  mountainous  country,  from  my  very 
childhood  I  have  felt  the  falsehood  that  pervades 
the  volumes  imposed  upon  the  world  under  the 
i^ame  of  Ossian.  From  what  I  saw  with  my  own 
eyes,  I  knew  that  the  imagery  was  spurious.  In 
Natui-e  everything  is  distinct,  yet  nothing  defined 
into   absolute   independent   singleness.     In  Mac- 


264       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

plierson's  work,  it  is  exactly  the  reverse ;  everything 
(that  is  not  stolen)  is  in  this  manner  defined,  insu- 
lated, dislocated,  deadened, — yet  nothing  distinct. 
It  will  always  be  so  when  words  are  substituted 
for  things.  To  say  that  the  characters  never 
could  exist,  that  the  manners  are  impossible,  and 
that  a  dream  has  more  substance  than  the  whole 
state  of  society,  as  there  depicted,  is  doing  notliing 
more  than  pronouncing  a  censure  which  Maci)her- 
son  defied,  when,  with  the  steeps  of  Morven  be- 
fore his  eyes,  he  could  talk  so  familiarly  of  his 
Car-borne  heroes  ;  —  of  Morven,  Avhicli,  if  one 
may  judge  from  its  appearance  at  the  distance  of 
a  few  miles,  contains  scarcely  an  acre  of  ground 
sufficiently  accommodating  for  a  sledge  to  be 
trailed  along  its  surface.  —  Mr.  Malcolm  Laing 
has  ably  shown  that  the  diction  of  this  pretended 
translation  is  a  motley  assemblage  from  all  quar- 
ters ;  but  he  is  so  fond  of  making  out  parallel 
passages  as  to  call  poor  Macpherson  to  account 
for  his  "  ands  "  and  his  "  huts  "  !  and  he  has  weak- 
ened his  argument  by  conducting  it  as  if  he 
thought  that  every  striking  resemblance  was  a 
conscious  plagiarism.  It  is  enough  that  the  coin- 
cidences are  too  remarkable  for  its  being  probable 
or  possible  that  they  could  arise  in  different  minds 
without  communication  between  them.  Now  as  the 
Translators  of  the  Bible,  and  Shakespeai-e,  Mil- 
ton, and  Pope,  could  not  l)e  indebted  to  Macpher- 
son, it  follows  tliat  he  must  have  owed  his  fine 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       26S 

foailiers  to  them  ;  unless  we  are  prepared  gravely 
to  assert,  with  Madame  de  Stael,  that  many  of 
the  characteristic  beauties  of  our  most  celebrated 
English  Poems  are  derived  from  the  ancient  Fin- 
gallian  ;  in  which  case  the  modern  translator 
would  have  been  but  giving  back  to  Ossian  his 
own.  —  It  is  consistent  that  Lucien  Buonaparte, 
vho  could  censure  Milton  for  having  surrounded 
Satan  in  the  infernal  regions  with  courtly  and  re^ 
gal  splendor,  should  pronounce  the  modern  Ossian 
to  be  the  glory  of  Scotland  ;  —  a  country  that  has 
produced  a  Dunbar,  a  Buchanan,  a  Thomson, 
and  a  Burns  !  These  opinions  are  of  ill  omen  for 
the  Epic  ambition  of  him  who  has  given  them  to 
the  world. 

Yet,  much  as  those  pretended  treasures  of  an- 
tiquity have  been  admired,  they  have  been  wholly 
uninfluential  upon  the  literature  of  the  Country. 
No  succeeding  writer  appears  to  have  caught  from 
them  a  ray  of  inspiration  ;  no  author,  in  the  least 
distinguished,  has  ventured  formally  to  imitate 
them,  —  except  the  boy,  Chatterton,  on  their  first 
appearance.  He  had  perceived,  from  the  success 
ful  trials  which  he  himself  had  made  in  literary 
forgery,  how  few  critics  were  able  to  distinguish 
between  a  real  ancient  medal  and  a  counterfeit  of 
modern  manufacture  ;  and  he  set  himself  to  the 
work  of  filling  a  magazine  with  Saxon  Poems,  — 
counterparts  of  those  of  Ossian,  as  like  his  as  one 
of  his  misty  stars  is  to  another.     This  incapability 


266  Ari'ENDIX,    rKKFACKs,    ETC. 

to  amalgamate  with  the  literature  of  the  Island,  is, 
in  my  estimation,  a  decisive  ijroof"  that  the  book  is 
essentially  unnatural ;  nor  should  I  require  any 
other  to  demonstrate  it  to  be  a  forgery,  auda- 
cious as  worthless.  —  Contrast,  in  this  respect, 
the  effect  of  Macpherson's  publication  with  the 
Reliques  of  Percy,  sc  unassuming,  so  modest  in 
their  pretensions!  —  I  have  already  stated  how 
much  Germany  is  indebted  to  this  latter  work ; 
and  for  our  own  country,  its  poetry  has  b-^en  abso- 
lutely redeemed  by  it.  I  do  not  think  that  there 
is  an  able  w-riter  in  verse  of  the  present  day  who 
would  not  be  proud  to  acknowledge  his  obliga- 
tions to  the  Reliques  ;  I  know  that  it  is  so  with 
my  friends  ;  and,  for  myself,  1  am  happy  in  this 
occasion  to  make  a  public  avowal  of  my  own. 

Dr.  .Johnson,  more  fortunate  in  his  contempt  of 
the  labors  of  Macpherson  than  those  of  his  modest 
friend,  was  solicited  not  long  after  to  furnish  Pref- 
aces biographical  and  critical  for  the  works  of 
some  of  the  most  eminent  English  Poets.  Tho 
booksellers  took  upon  themselves  to  make  the  col- 
lection ;  they  referred  probably  to  the  most  popular 
miscellanies,  and,  unquestionably,  to  their  books 
of  accounts  ;  and  decided  upon  the  claim  of  authors 
to  be  admitted  into  a  body  of  the  most  eminent, 
from  the  familiarity  of  their  names  with  the  read- 
ers of  that  day,  and  by  the  profits,  which,  fiom 
the  sale  of  his  works,  each  liad  brought  and  was 
bringing  to  the  Trade.    The  Editor  was  allowed  a 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       267 

limited  exercise  of  discretion,  and  the  Authors 
whom  he  recommended  are  scarcely  to  be  men- 
tioned without  a  smile.  We  ojjen  the  volume  of 
Prefatory  Lives,  and  to  our  astonishment  the ^7'S< 
name  we  find  is  that  of  Cowley  !  —  What  is  become 
of  the  morning-star  of  English  Poetry  ?  Where 
is  the  bright  Elizabethan  constellation  ?  Or,  if 
names  be  more  acceptable  than  images,  where  is  the 
ever-to-be-honored  Chaucer?  where  is  Spenser? 
where  Sidney  ?  and,  lastly,  where  he,  whose  i-ights 
as  a  poet,  contradistinguished  from  those  which 
he  is  universally  allowed  to  possess  as  a  drama- 
tist, Ave  have  vindicated,  —  where  Shakespeare? 
—  These,  and  a  multitude  of  others  not  unworthy  to 
be  placed  near  them,  their  contemporaries  and  suc- 
cessors, we  have  not.  But  in  their  stead,  we  have 
(could  better  be  expected  when  precedence  was  to 
be  settled  by  an  abstract  of  reputation  at  any  given 
period  made,  as  in  this  case  before  us  ?)  Roscom- 
mon, and  Stepney,  and  PhilHps,  and  Walsh,  and 
Smith,  and  Duke,  and  King,  and  Spratt,  —  Halifax, 
Granville,  Sheffield,  Congreve,  Broome,  and  oth- 
er reputed  Magnates,  —  metrical  wi'iters  utterly 
worthless  and  useless,  except  for  occasions  like 
the  present,  when  their  productions  are  referred 
to  as  evidence  what  a  small  quantity  of  brain  jo 
necessary  to  procure  a  considerable  stock  of  ad- 
miration, provided  the  aspirant  will  accommodate 
liraself  to  the  likings  and  fashions  of  his  day. 
As  I  do  not  mean  to  bruig  down  this  retrospect 


2C8       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC- 

to  our  own  times,  it  may  with  propriet}'  be  closed 
lit  the  era  of  this  distinguished  event.  From  the 
literature  of  otlier  ages  and  countries,  proofs 
equally  cogent  might  have  been  adduced,  that  ihe 
opinions  announced  in  the  former  part  of  tliis  Essay 
are  founded  upon  truth.  It  was  not  an  agreeable 
office,  nor  a  prudent  undertaking,  to  declare  them  ; 
but  their  importance  seemed  to  render  it  a  duty. 
It  may  still  be  asked,  where  lies  the  particular  rela- 
tion of  what  has  been  said  to  these  volumes  ?  — 
The  question  will  be  easily  answered  by  the  dis- 
cerning Reader  who  is  old  enough  to  remember  the 
taste  that  prevailed  when  some  of  these  poems 
were  first  published,  seventeen  years  ago  ;  who 
has  also  observed  to  what  degree  the  poetry  of  this 
Island  has  since  that  pei'iod  been  colored  by  them  ; 
and  who  is  further  aware  of  the  unremitting  hos- 
tility with  which,  upon  some  principle  or  other,  they 
have  each  and  all  been  opposed.  A  sketch  of  my 
own  notion  of  the  constitution  of  Fame  has  been 
given  ;  and,  as  far  as  concerns  myself,  I  have  cause 
to  be  satisfied.  The  love,  the  admiration,  the  in- 
difference, tlie  slight,  the  aversion,  and  even  the 
contempt,  with  which  these  Poems  have  been  re- 
ceived, knowing,  as  I  do,  the  source  within  my  own 
mind  from  which  they  have  proceeded,  and  the 
labor  and  pains  which,  when  labor  and  j)ains 
appeared  nfcdful,  have  been  bestowed  upon  them, 
must  all,  if  I  think  consistently,  be  received  aa 
Du  dges  and  tokens,  bearing  the  same  g<;neral  im- 


APPENDIX,   PREFACES,    ETC.  26l> 

pression,  though  widely  different  in  value  ;  —  they 
are  all  proofs  that  for  the  present  time  I  Lave  not 
labored  in  vain  ;  and  afford  assurances,  more  or 
less  authentic,  that  the  products  of  my  industry 
will  endure. 

If  there  be  one  conclusion  more  forcibly  pressed 
upon  us  than  another  by  the  review  which  has 
been  given  of  the  fortunes  and  fate  of  poetical 
Works,  it  is  this,  — that  every  author,  as  far  as  he 
is  great  and  at  the  same  time  original,  has  had  the 
task  of  creating  the  taste  by  which  he  is  to  be  en- 
joyed :  so  has  it  been,  so  will  it  continue  to  be. 
This  remark  was  long  since  made  to  me  by  the 
philosopliical  Friend  for  the  separation  of  whose 
Poems  fiom  my  own  I  have  previously  expressed 
my  regret.  The  predecessors  of  an  original  Genius 
of  a  high  order  will  have  smoothed  the  way  for  all 
that  he  has  in  common  with  them,  —  and  much 
he  will  have  in  common  ;  but  for  what  is  pecu- 
liarly his  own,  he  will  be  called  upon  to  clear  and 
often  to  shape  his  own  road,  —  he  will  be  in  the 
condition  of  Hannibal  among  the  Alps. 

And  where  lies  the  real  difficulty  of  creating  that 
taste  by  which  a  truly  original  poet  is  to  be  relished  ? 
Is  it  in  breaking  the  bonds  of  custom,  in  overcom- 
ing the  prejudices  of  false  refinement,  and  displa- 
cing the  aversions  of  inexperience  ?  Or,  if  he  labor 
for  an  object  which  here  and  elsewheie  I  have 
proposed  to  myself,  does  it  consist  in  divesting  the 
f^iader  of  the  pride  that  indu'  es  him  to  dwell  upon 


270       APPENDIX,  PKEFACES,  ETC. 

tliose  {.oints  wherein  men  differ  from  each  otlier, 
to  the  exclusion  of  those  in  wliich  all  men  are 
alike,  or  the  same  ;  and  in  making  him  ashamed  of 
the  vanity  that  renders  him  insensible  of  the  appro- 
priate excellence  which  civil  arrangements,  less 
unjust  than  might  appear,  and  Nature  illimitable 
in  her  bounty,  have  conferred  on  men  who  may 
stand  below  him  in  the  scale  of  society  ?  Finally, 
does  it  lie  in  establishing  that  dominion  over  the 
spirits  of  I'eaders  by  which  they  are  to  be  humbled 
and  humanized^  in  order  that  they  may  be  purified 
and  exalted  ? 

If  these  ends  are  to  be  attained  by  the  mere 
communication  of  hiotvledye,  it  does  not  lie  hei-e. 
—  Taste,  I  would  remind  the  reader,  like  Imagi- 
nation, is  a  word  which  has  been  forced  to  ex- 
tend its  services  far  beyond  the  point  to  which 
philosophy  would  have  confined  them.  It  is  a 
metaphor,  taken  from  &. passive  sense  of  the  hu- 
man body,  and  transferred  to  thino;s  which  are  in 
their  essence  not  passive,  —  to  intellectual  acts 
and  operations.  The  word  Imagination  has  been 
overstrained,  from  impulses  honorable  to  mankind, 
to  meet  the  demands  of  the  faculty  which  is  perhaps 
the  noblest  of  our  nature.  In  the  instance  of 
Taste,  tlie  process  has  been  reversed  ;  and  from 
the  prevahnice  of  dispositions  at  once  injurious  and 
discreditable,  being  no  other  than  that  seKishncss 
whicli  is  the  ciiild  of  ajjathy,  —  whicii,  as  Nations 
decline  in  productive   and  creative  power,  makes 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       271 

Lhem  vmIub  themselves  upon  a  presumed  refine- 
ment of  judging.  Poverty  of  language  is  the  pri- 
mary cause  of  the  use  which  we  make  of  the  word 
Imagination ;  but  the  word  Taste  has  been  stretched 
to  the  sense  which  it  bears  in  modern  Europe 
by  habits  of  self-conceit,  inducing  that  inversion  in 
the  order  of  things  whereby  a  passive  faculty  is 
made  paramount  among  the  faculties  conversant 
with  the  fine  arts.  Proportion  and  congruity,  the 
requisite  knowledge  being  supposed,  are  subjects 
upon  Avhich  taste  may  be  trusted ;  it  is  competent 
to  this  office  ;  —  for  in  its  intercourse  with  these 
the  mind  is  passive,  and  is  affected  j)ainfully  or 
pleasurably  as  by  an  instinct.  But  the  profound 
and  the  exquisite  in  feeling,  the  lofty  and  univer- 
sal in  thought  and  imagination,  —  or,  in  ordinary 
language,  the  pathetic  and  the  sublime,  —  are 
neither  of  them,  accurately  speaking,  objects  of  a 
faculty  which  could  ever  without  a  sinking  in  the 
spirit  of  Nations  have  been  designated  by  the 
metaphor.  Taste.  And  Avhy  ?  Because  with- 
out the  exertion  of  a  coo[)erating  poiver  in  the 
mind  of  the  Reader,  there  can  be  no  adequate 
sympathy  with  either  of  these  emotions:  without 
this  auxiliary  impulse,  elevated  or  profound  pas- 
sion cannot  exist. 

Passion,  it  must  be  observed,  is  derived  from  a 
word  which  signifies  suffering  ;  but  the  connection 
wliich  suffering  has  with  effort,  with  exertion,  and 
icti'on,  is  immediate  and  inseparable.     How  strik- 


272  APrENDIX,    PREPACKS,    ETC. 

iiigly  is  this  property  of  human  uature  exhibited 
by  th(i  fact,  that,  in  popular  language,  to  be  in  a 
passion,  is  to  be  angry  !  —  But 

"  Anger  in  hasty  words  or  blows 
Itself  discharges  on  its  foes." 

To  be  moved,  then,  by  a  passion,  is  to  be  excited, 
often  to  external,  and  always  to  internal   effort ; 
whether  for  the  continuance  and  strengthening  of 
the  passion,  or  for  its   suppression,  accordingly  as 
the  course  which  it  takes  may  be  painful  or  pleas- 
urable.    If  the  latter,  the  soul  must  contribute  to 
its  support,  or  it  never  becomes   vivid,  and   soon 
languishes,  and  dies.     And  this  brings  us  to  the 
point.     If  every  great  poet   with   whose  writings 
men  are  familiar,  in    the    higliest  exercise  of  his 
genius,   before  he  can  be  thoroughly  enjoj^ed,  has 
to   call  forth  and  to  communicate  joower,  this  ser- 
vice, in  a  still  greater  degree,  falls  upon  an  origi- 
nal writer,  at  his  first  appearance  in  the  world. 
—  Of  genius  the  only  proof  is  the  act  of  doing  well 
what  is   worthy  to  be  done,  and  what  was  never 
done  before:  of  genius,  in   the  fine  arts,  the  only 
infallible  sign  is  the  widening  the  sphere  of  human 
sensibility,   for  ilie  delight,  honor,  and  benefit  of 
human  nature.   Genius  is  the  introduction  of  a  new 
element  into  the  intellectual   universe  :  or,  if  that 
be  not  allowed,  it  is  the  application  of  powers  to  ob- 
jects on  which  they  had  not  before  been  exercised, 
OJ"  I  III'  employment  of  them  in  such  a  manner  as  to 


APPENl^lX,  PREFACES,  ETC       273 

produce  effects  hitherto  unknown.  Wlmt  is  all  thi<«, 
but  an  advance,  or  a  conquest,  made  by  the  soul 
of  the  poet  ?  Is  it  to  be  supposed  that  the  reader 
can  make  progress  of  this  kind,  like  an  Indian 
prince  or  general,  stretched  on  his  palanquin, 
and  borne  by  his  slaves  ?  No  ;  he  is  invigorated 
and  inspirited  by  his  leader,  in  order  that  he  may 
exert  himself;  for  he  cannot  pi-oceed  in  quiescence, 
he  cannot  be  carried  like  a  dead  weight.  There- 
fore, to  create  taste  is  to  call  forth  and'  bestow 
power,  of  which  knowledge  is  the  effect ;  and 
there  lies  the  true  difficulty. 

As  the  pathetic  participates  of  an  animal  sen- 
sation, it  might  seem  that,  if  the  springs  of  this 
emotion  were  genuine,  all  men,  possessed  of  com- 
petent knowledge  of  the  facts  and  circumstances, 
would  be  instantaneously  affected.  And  doubtless 
in  the  works  of  every  true  poet  will  be  found  pas- 
sages of  that  species  of  excellence,  which  is  proved 
by  effects  immediate  and  universal.  But  there 
are  emotions  of  the  pathetic  that  are  simple  and 
direct,  and  others  that  are  complex  and  revolu- 
tionary ;  some  to  which  the  heart  yields  with 
gentleness,  others  against  which  it  struggles 
with  pride ;  these  varieties  are  infinite  as  the 
combinations  of  circumstance  and  the  constitutions 
of  character.  Remember,  also,  that  the  medium 
through  which,  in  poetry,  the  heart  is  to  be  affect- 
ed, is  language  ;  a  thing  subject  to  endless  fluc- 
tuations and  ai'bitrary  associations.     The  genius 

VOL.   V.  18 


274       APrKNPIX.  PREFACES,  ETC. 

of  the  poet  melts  tliese  down  for  liis  purpose  j  but 
they  retain  their  shape  and  quality  to  him  who  is 
not  capable  of  exerting,  within  his  own  mind,  a 
corresponding  energy.  There  is  also  a  meditative, 
as  well  as  a  human,  pathos  ;  an  enthusiastic,  as 
well  as  an  ordinary,  sorrow  ;  a  sadness  that  has 
its  seat  in  the  depths  of  reason,  to  which  the  mind 
cannot  sink  gently  of  itself,  but  to  which  it  must 
descend  by  treading  the  steps  of  thought.  And  for 
the  sublime,  —  if  we  consider  what  are  the  cares 
that  occupy  the  passing  day,  and  how  remote  is 
the  practice  and  the  course  of  life  from  the  sources 
of  sublimity,  in  tlie  soul  of  Man,  can  it  be  won 
dered  that  th(M-e  is  little  existing  preparation  for 
a  poet  charged  with  a  new  mission  to  extend  its 
kingdom,  and  to  augment  and  spread  its  enjoy- 
ments ? 

Away,  then,  with  the  senseless  iteration  of  the 
word  popular,  applied  to  new  works  in  poetry,  as 
if  there  were  no  test  of  excellence  in  this  first  of 
the  fine  arts  but  that  all  men  should  run  after  its 
produ(!tions,  as  if  urged  by  an  appetite,  or  con- 
utrained  by  a  sj)ell  !  —  The  qualities  of  writing 
best  fitted  for  eager  reception  are  either  such  a^ 
startle  the  world  into  attention  by  tlicir  audacity 
and  extravagance;  or  they  are  chiefly  of  a  super- 
ficial kind,  lying  upon  the  surfaces  of  manners  ; 
or  arising  out  of  a  selection  and  arrangement  of 
incidents,  by  which  the  mind  is  kept  upon  the 
stretch  of  curiosity,  and  the  fancy  amused  without 


APl'ENDTX,    PUEFACES,    ETC 


275 


the  trouble  of  though!       hut  in  everything  which 
is  to  send  the  soul  iuio  herself,  to  be  admonished 
of  her  weakness,  or  to  be  made  conscious  of  her 
power,  —  wherever  life  and  nature  are  described 
as  operated  upon  by  the  creative  or  abstracting 
virtue  of  the  imagination,  — wherever  the  instinc- 
tive wisdom  of  antiquity  and  her  heroic  passions 
uniting,  in  the  heart  of  tho  poet,  with  the  medi- 
tative v/isdora  of  later  ages,  have  produced  that 
accord  of  sublimated  humanity,  which  is  at  once 
a   history   of  the   remote   past   and  a  proplietio 
enunciation  of  the  remotest  future,  —  there  the  poet 
must  reconcile  himself  for  a  season  to  few   and 
scattered  hearers.  —  Grand  thoughts,  (and  Shake- 
speare must  often  have  sighed  over  this  truth,)  as 
they  are  most  naturally  and  most  fitly  conceived 
in  solitude,  so  can  they  not  be  brought  forth  in  the 
midst  of  plaudits,  Avithout  some  violation  of  their 
sanctity.      Go  to  a  silent  exhibition  of  the  produc- 
tions of  the  sister  Art,  and  be  convinced  that  the 
qualities  which  dazzle  at  first  sight,  and  kindle  the 
admiration  of  the  multitude,  are  essentially  dittt-i- 
ent  from  those  by  which  permanent  influence  is 
secured.     Let  us   not  shrink   from   following    up 
these  principles  as  far  as  they  will  carry  us,  ?^x>A 
conclude    with    observing,  that   there    never  has 
been  a  period,  and  perhaps  never  will  be,  in  which 
vicious  poetry,  of  some  kind  or  other,  has  not  ex- 
cited more  zealous  admiration,  and  been  far  more 
generally  read,  than  good  ;  but  this  advantage  at- 


276       APPENDIX.  PREFACES,  ETC. 

lends  the  good,  that  the  individttal,  as  well  as  the 
species,  .survives  from  age  to  age;  whereas,  of  the 
depraved,  though  the  species  be  immortal,  the  in- 
dividual quickly  perishes ;  the  object  of  present 
admiration  vanishes,  being  supplanted  by  some 
other  as  easily  produced;  which,  though  no  better, 
brings  with  it  at  lea^^t  the  irritation  of  novelty,  — 
with  adaptation,  more  or  less  skilful,  to  the  chan- 
ging humors  of  the  majority  of  those  who  are 
most  at  leisure  to  regard  poetical  works  when 
they  first  solicit  their  attention. 

Is  it  the  result  of  the  whole,  that,  in  the  opin- 
ion of  the  writer,  the  judgment  of  the  Peojde  is 
not  to  be  respected  ?  The  thought  is  most  injuri- 
ous; and,  could  the  charge  be  brought  against  iiim, 
he  would  repel  it  with  indignation.  The  People 
have  already  been  justified,  and  their  eulogiuna 
pronounced  by  implication,  when  it  was  said  above, 
that,  of  good  poetry,  the  individual,  as  well  a^ 
the  species,  survives.  And  how  does  it  survive 
but  through  the  People  ?  What  preserves  it  but 
their  intellect  and  their  wisdom? 

"  I  tist  and  Future  are  tlie  winga 
On  whose  support,  liannoiiiously  conjoined, 
Moves  the  great  Spirit  of  human  knowledge." 

AfS. 

The  voice  that  issues  from  this  Spirit  is  that  Vox 
Populi  which  the  Deity  inspires.  Foolish  must  he 
he  who  can  mistake  for  this  a  local  acclamation,  or  a 
iransitory  outcry, — transitory  thougli  it  be  for  ycai*s, 


APPKNDIX,  TRKKACES,  KTC.       277 

local  though  from  a  Nation.  Still  more  lamentable 
is  his  error  who  can  believe  that  there  is  anything 
of  divine  infallibility  in  the  clamor  of  that  small 
though  loud  portion  of  the  community,  ever  gov- 
erned by  factitious  influence,  which,  under  the 
name  of  the  Public,  passes  itself,  upon  the  un- 
thinking, for  the  People.  Towards  the  Public, 
the  Writer  hopes  that  he  feels  as  much  deference 
as  it  is  entitled  to  :  but  to  the  People,  philosophi- 
cally characterized,  and  to  the  embodied  spirit  of 
their  knowledge,  so  far  as  it  exists  and  moves,  at 
the  present,  faithfully  supported  by  its  two  wings, 
the  past  and  the  future,  his  devout  respect,  his  rev- 
erence, is  due.  He  offers  it  willingly  and  i-eadi- 
ly  ;  and,  this  done,  takes  leave  of  his  Readers, 
by  assuring  them,  that,  if  he  were  not  persuaded 
that  the  contents  of  these  volumes,  and  the  Work 
to  which  they  are  subsidiary,  evince  something  of 
the  "  Vision  and  the  Faculty  divine,"  and  that, 
both  in  words  and  things,  they  will  operate,  in 
their  degree,  to  extend  the  domain  of  sensibility 
for  the  delight,  the  honor,  and  the  benefit  of  hu- 
man nature,  notwithstanding  the  many  happy 
hours  which  he  has  employed  in  their  composi- 
tion, and  the  manifold  comforts  and  er/jo)'ments 
they  have  procured  to  him,  he  would  not,  if  a 
wish  could  do  it,  save  them  from  immediate  de- 
struction ;  —  from  becoming  at  this  moment,  to  the 
world,  as  a  thing  that  had  never  been. 

1616. 


DEDICATION. 

PREFIXED   TO  THE  EDITION   OF  1815. 


TO 

SIR  GEORGE  HOWLAND  BEAUMONT,  Bart. 

RIy  dear  Sir  George,  — 

Accept  my  thanks  for    the    permission   given 
me    to    dedicate    these    volumes  to  you.     In  ad- 
dition to  a  lively  pleasure  derived  from  general 
considerations,  I  feel  a  particular  satisfaction ;  for, 
by  inscribing  these  Poems   with  your  Name,  I 
seem  to  myself  in  some  degree  to  repay,  by  an 
appropriate  honor,  the   great  obligation  which  I 
owe   to   one  part  of  the  Collection,  —  as  having 
been  the   means   of   first   making    us    personally 
known  to  each  other.     Upon  much  of  the  remain- 
der, also,  you  have  a  peculiar  claim,  —  for  some 
of  the  best  pieces  were  composed  under  the  shade 
of  your  own  groves,   upon   the  classic  ground  of 
Coleorton  ;  where  I  was  animated  by  the  recol- 
lection of  those   illustrious   Poets  of  your  name 
and  family,  who  were  born   in  that  neighborhood  ; 
and,  we  may  be  assured,  did  not  wandt-r  with  in- 
difference by  the  dashing  stream  of  Grace  Dieu, 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       279 

and  among  the  rocks  that  diversify  the  forest  of 
Charnwood.  —  Nor  is  there  any  one  to  whom  such 
parts  of  this  Collection  as  have  been  inspired  or 
colored  by  the  beautiful  Country  from  which  I 
now  address  you,  could  be  presented  with  more 
propriety  than  to  yourself,  —  to  whom  it  has  sug- 
gested so  many  admirable  pictures.  Early  in 
life,  the  sublimity  and  beauty  of  this  region  ex- 
cited your  admiration  ;  and  I  know  that  you  are 
bound  to  it  in  mind  by  a  still  strengthening  at- 
tachment. 

Wishing  and  hoping  that  this  "Work,  with  the 
embellishments  it  has  received  from  your  pencil,* 
may  survive  as  a  lasting  memorial  of  a  friendship, 
which  I  reckon  among  the  blessings  of  my  life, 

I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

My  dear  Sir  George, 
Yours  most  affectionately  and  faithfully, 
William  Wordsworth. 

Rtdal  Mount,  WESTMOaELAJfB, 
February  1,  1815. 

*  The  state  of  tho  plates  has,  for  somo  time,  not  allowed 
thom  to  be  repeated. 


PREFACE   TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 


The  powers  requisite  for  the  production  .of  po- 
etry are  :  first,  those  of  Observation  and  Descrip- 
tion,—  i.  e.  the  ability  to  observe  with  accuracy 
things  as  they  are  in  themselves,  and  with  fidelity 
to  describe  them,  unmodified  by  any  passion  or 
feelinsj  existinsc  in  the  mind  of  the  describer ; 
M'hether  the  things  depicted  be  actually  present  to 
the  senses,  or  have  a  place  only  in  the  memory. 
This  power,  though  indispensable  to  a  Poet,  is  one 
which  he  employs  only  in  submission  to  necessity, 
and  never  for  a  continuance  of  time  :  as  its  exer- 
cise supposes  all  the  higher  qualities  of  the  mind 
to  be  passive,  and  in  a  state  of  subjection  to  exter- 
nal objects,  much  in  the  same  way  as  a  translator 
or  engraver  ought  to  be  to  his  original.  2dly, 
Sensibility,  —  which,  the  more  exquisite  it  is,  the 
wider  will  be  the  range  of  a  poet's  perceptions  ; 
and  the  more  will  he  be  incited  to  observe  objects, 
both  as  they  exist  in  themselves  and  as  re- 
acted upon  by  his  own  mind.  (The  distinction 
between  poetic  and  human  sensibility  has  bt-en 
marked  in  the  character  of  the  Poet  delineated  in 


ArPEXDlX,  rUEFACKS,  ETC.       281 

the  original  Preface.)  3dly,  Reflection,  —  which 
makes  tlie  Poet  acquainted  with  the  value  of  ac- 
tions, images,  thoughts,  and  feelings  ;  and  assists 
the  sensibility  in  perceiving  their  connection  with 
each  other.  4thlj,  Imagination  and  Fancy,  —  to 
modify,  to  create,  and  to  associate.  5thly,  Inven- 
tion,—  by  which  characters  are  composed  out  of 
materials  supplied  by  observation  ;  whetlier  of  the 
Poet's  own  heart  and  mind,  or  of  external  life  and 
nature ;  and  such  incidents  and  situations  pro- 
duced as  are  most  impressive  to  the  imagination, 
and  most  fitted  to  do  justice  to  the  characters,  sen- 
timents, and  passions,  which  the  Poet  undertakes 
to  illustrate.  And,  lastly.  Judgment,  —  to  decide 
how  and  where,  and  in  what  degree,  each  of  these 
faculties  ought  to  be  exerted;  so  that  the  less 
shall  not  be  sacrificed  to  the  greater ;  nor  the 
greater,  slighting  the  less,  arrogate,  to  its  own  in- 
jury, more  than  its  due.  By  judgment,  also,  is 
determined  what  are  the  laws  and  appropriate 
graces  of  every  species  of  composition.* 

The  materials  of  Poetry,  by  these  powers  col 
lected  and  produced,  are  cast,  by  means  of  various 
moulds,  into  divers  forms.  The  moulds  may  be 
enumerated,  and  the  forms  specified,  in  the  follow- 
ing order.  1st,  The  Narx'ative,  —  including  the 
Epopoeia,  the  Historic  Poem,  the  Tale,  the  Ro- 

*  As  sensibility  to  liarmony  of  numbers,  and  the  power  of 
producing  it,  are  invariably  attendants  upon  the  facultie^ 
above  specified,  nothing  has  been  said  upon  those  requisites. 


282  APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

mancc,  the  Mock-heroic,  and,  if  the  spirit  of  Ho- 
mer will  tolerate  such  neighborhood,  that  dear 
production  of  our  days,  the  Metrical  Novel.  Of 
this  Class,  the  distinguishing  mark  is,  that  the 
Narrator,  however  liberally  his  speaking  agents 
be  introduced,  is  himself  the  source  from  which 
everything  primarily  flows.  Epic  Poets,  in  or- 
der that  their  mode  of  composition  may  accord 
with  the  elevation  of  their  subject,  re])resent 
themselves  as  singing  from  the  inspiration  of  the 
3Iuse,  "  Ai-ma  virumque  cano"  ;  but  this  is  a  fic- 
tion, in  modern  times,  of  slight  value  ;  the  Iliad  or 
the  Paradise  Lost  would  gain  little  in  our  estima- 
tion by  being  chanted.  The  other  poets  who  be- 
long to  this  class  are  commonly  content  to  teU 
their  tale  ;  —  so  that^of  the  whole  it  may  be  af- 
firmed that  they  neither  require  nor  reject  the 
accompaniment  of  music. 

2dly,  The  Dramatic,  —  consisting  of  Tragedy, 
Historic  Drama,  Comedy,  and  Masque,  in  which 
lh(^  Poet  does  not  appear  at  all  in  his  own  person, 
and  where  the  whole  action  is  carried  on  by 
speech  and  dialogue  of  the  agents  ;  music  being 
admitted  only  incidentally  and  rarely.  The  Ope- 
ra may  be  placed  here,  inasmuch  as  it  proceeds 
by  dialogue  ;  though,  depending,  to  the  degree 
that  it  does,  upon  music,  it  has  a  strong  claim  to 
be  ranked  with  the  Ivrical.  The  characteristic 
uiid  impassioned  Epistle,  of  which  Ovid  and  Pope 
have,  given  examples,  considered  as  a  species  of 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       283 

jionodiama,  may,  without  impropriety,  be  placed 
in  this  class. 

3dly,  The  Lyrical,  —  containing  the  Hymn, 
the  Ode,  the  Elegy,  the  Song,  and  the  Ballad ;  in 
all  which,  for  the  production  of  their  full  effect, 
an  accompaniment  of  music  is  indispensable. 

4thly,  The  Idyllium, —  descriptive  chiefly  either 
of  the  processes  and  appearances  of  external  na- 
ture, as  the  Seasons  of  Thomson  ;  or  of  charac- 
ters, manners,  and  sentiments,  as  are  Shenstone's 
Schoolmistress,  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  of 
Burns,  The  Twa  Dogs  of  the  same  Author ;  or  of 
these  in  conjunction  with  the  appearances  of  Na- 
ture, as  most  of  the  pieces  of  Theocritus,  the  Al- 
legro and  Penseroso  of  Milton,  Beattie's  Minstrel, 
Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village.  The  Epitaph,  the 
Inscription,  the  Sonnet,  most  of  the  epistles  of 
Doets  wi'iting  in  their  own  persons,  and  all  loco- 
descriptive  poetry,  belong  to  this  class. 

othly.  Didactic,  —  the  principal  object  of  which 
is  direct  instruction  ;  as  the  Poem  of  Lucretius, 
the  Georgics  of  Virgil,  The  Fleece  of  Dyer,  Ma- 
son's English  Garden,  &c. 

And,  lastly.  Philosophical  Satire,  like  that  of 
Horace  and  Juvenal ;  personal  and  occasional 
Satire  rarely  comprehending  sufficient  of  the 
general  in  the  individual  to  be  dignified  with  the 
name  of  poetry. 

Out  of  the  three  last  has  been  constructed 
4    composite    order,    of    which    Young's    Night 


284  APPJ'.XDIX,    PREPACKS,    ETC. 

riioughts,  and  Cowper's  Task,  are  excellent  ex- 
amples. 

It  is  deduoible  from  the  above,  that  poems,  ap- 
parently miscellaneous,  may  with  propriety  be 
ai'ranged  either  with  reference  to  the  powers  of 
mind  predominant  in  the  production  of  them  ;  or 
to  the  mould  in  which  they  are  cast ;  or,  lastl}',  to 
the  subjects  to  which  they  relate.  From  each  of 
these  considerations,  the  following  Poems  have 
been  divided  into  classes  ;  which,  that  the  woik 
may  more  obviously  correspond  with  the  course 
of  human  life,  and  for  the  sake  of  exiiibiting  in  it 
the  three  requisites  of  a  legitimate  wiiole,  a  be- 
ginning, a  middle,  and  an  end,  have  been  also  ar- 
ranged, as  far  as  it  was  possible,  according  to  an 
order  of  time,  commencing  with  Childhood,  and 
terminating  with  Old  Age,  Death,  and  Immortal- 
ity. My  guiding  wish  was,  that  the  small  {)iece3 
of  which  these  volumes  consist,  thus  discriminated, 
mifrht  be  re";arded  under  a  twofold  view ;  as 
composing  an  entire  work  within  themselves,  and 
as  adjuncts  to  the  philosophical  Poem,  "  The  Re- 
cluse." This  arrangement  has  long  presented  it- 
self habitually  to  my  own  mind.  Nevertheless, 
I  should  have  preferred  to  scatter  the  contents  of 
these  volumes  at  random,  if  I  had  been  persuaded 
that,  by  the  plan  adopted,  anything  material 
would  be  taken  from  the  natural  effect  of  tlie 
•jicces,  individually,  on  the  mind  of  the  unreflecling 
Reader.     I  trust  there  is  a  sufficient  variety  iu 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       285 

each  class  to  prevent  this  ;  while,  for  him  who 
reads  with  reflection,  the  arrangement  will  serve  as 
fi,  commentary  unostentatiously  directing  his  atten- 
tion to  my  purposes,  both  particular  and  general. 
But,  as  I  wish  to  guard  against  the  possibility  of 
misleading  by  tliis  classification,  it  is  proper  first 
to  remind  the  Reader,  that  certain  poems  are. 
placed  according  to  the  powers  of  mind,  in  the 
production  of  them  ;  predominant,  which  implies 
the  exertion  of  other  faculties  in  less  degree. 
Where  there  is  more  imagination  than  fancy  in  a 
poem,  it  is  placed  under  the  head  of  Imagination, 
and  vice  i-ersd.  Both  the  above  classes  might 
without  impropriety  have  been  enlarged  from  that 
consisting  of  "  Poems  founded  on  the  Affections  "; 
as  mi'j-ht  this  latter  from  those,  and  fi-om  the  class 
"  proceeding  from  Sentiment  and  Reflection." 
The  most  striking  characteristics  of  each  piece, 
mutual  illustration,  variety,  and  proportion,  have 
governed  me  throughout. 

None  of  the  other  classes,  except  those  of 
Fancy  and  Imagination,  require  any  particular 
notice.  But  a  remark  of  general  application  may 
be  made.  All  Poets,  except  the  dramatic,  have 
'fteen  in  the  practice  of  feigning  that  their  woi-ks 
were  composed  to  the  music  of  the  harp  or  lyre  : 
with  what  decree  of  aff'ectation  this  has  been  done 
in  modern  times,  I  leave  to  the  judicious  to  deti^r- 
raine.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  not  been  dis- 
Dosed  to  violate  probability  so  far,   or   *.o   make 


286       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

Buoh  a  large  demand  upon  the  Reader's  charity. 
Some  of  these  pieces  are  essentially  lyrical ;  and 
therefore  cannot  have  their  due  force  without  a 
supposed  musical  accompaniment;  but,  in  much 
the  greatest  part,  as  a  substitute  for  the  classic  lyre 
or  romantic  harp,  I  require  nothing  more  than 
animated  or  impassioned  recitation,  adapted  to  the 
subject.  Poems,  however  humble  in  their  kind,  if 
they  be  good  in  that  kind,  cannot  read  them- 
selves ;  the  law  of  long  syllable  and  short  must 
not  be  so  inflexible,  —  the  letter  of  metre  must 
not  be  so  impassive  to  the  spirit  of  versification, — 
as  to  deprive  the  Reader  of  all  voluntary  power 
to  modulate,  in  subordination  to  the  sense,  the 
music  of  the  poem  ;  —  in  the  same  manner  as  his 
mind  is  left  at  liberty,  and  even  summoned,  to  act 
upon  its  thoughts  and  images.  But,  though  the 
accompaniment  of  a  musical  instrument  be  fre- 
quently dispensed  with,  the  true  Poet  does  not 
therefore  abandon  his  privilege  distinct  from  that 
of  tiie  mere  Proseman  :  — 

"  He  murmui's  near  the  running  brooks 
A  music  sweeter  tlian  tlieir  own." 

Let  us  come  now  to  the  consideration  of  the 
words  Fancy  and  Imagination,  as  employed  in  the 
classification  of  the  following  Poems.  '*  A  man," 
says  an  intelligent  author,  "  has  imagination  in 
propoi-tion  as  he  can  distinctly  copy  in  idea  the 
iiJipres.-ions    of   sense :    it    is    the    faculty    which 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       287 

images  within  the  mind  the  phenomena  of  sensa 
tion.  A  man  has  fancy  in  proportion  as  he  can 
call  up,  connect,  or  associate,  at  pleasure,  those 
internal  images  {(pavrd^eip  is  to  cause  to  appear) 
so  as  to  comi^lete  ideal  representations  of  absent 
objects.  Imagination  is  the  power  of  depicting, 
and  fancy  of  evoking  and  combining.  The  imagi- 
nation is  formed  by  patient  observation  ;  the  fancy 
by  a  voluntary  activity  in  shifting  the  scenery  of 
the  mind.  The  more  accurate  the  imagination,  the 
more  safely  may  a  painter,  or  a  poet,  undertake  a 
delineation,  or  a  descinption,  without  the  presence 
of  the  objects  to  be  characterized.  The  more  ver- 
satile the  fancy,  the  more  original  and  striking 
will  be  the  decorations  produced."  —  Bi-itish  Syno- 
nymes  discriminated,  by  W.  Taylor. 

Is  not  this  as  if  a  man  should  undertake  to  sup- 
ply an  account  of  a  building,  and  be  so  intent 
upon  what  he  had  discovered  of  the  foundation,  as 
to  conclude  his  task  without  once  looking  up  at 
the  superstructure  ?  Here,  as  in  other  instances 
throughout  the  volume,  the  judicious  Author's 
mind  is  enthralled  by  Etymology ;  he  takes  up 
the  original  word  as  his  guide  and  escort,  and  too 
often  does  not  perceive  how  soon  he  becomes  its 
prisoner,  without  liberty  to  tread  in  any  path  but 
that  to  which  it  confines  him.  It  is  not  easy  to 
find  out  hoAV  imaghiation,  thus  explained,  differs 
from  distinct  remembrance  of  images;  or  fancy 
from  quick  and  vivid  recollection  of  them :  each 


288       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

is  nothing  more  than  a  mode  of  memory.  Il  the 
two  words  bear  the  above  meaning,  and  no 
other,  what  term  is  left  to  designate  that  faculty 
of  which  the  Poet  is  "all  compact," — he  whose 
eye  glances  from  earth  to  heaven,  whose  spiritual 
attributes  body  forth  what  his  pen  is  prompt  in 
turning  to  shape  ?  or  what  is  left  to  characterize 
Fancv,  as  insinuating  herself  into  the  heart  of 
objects  with  creative  activity? — Imagination,  in 
the  sense  of  the  word  a5  giving  title  to  a  class  of 
the  following  Poems,  has  no  reference  to  images 
that  are  merely  a  faithful  copy,  existing  in  the 
mind,  of  absent  external  objects  ;  but  is  a  word  of 
higher  import,  denoting  operations  of  the  mind 
upon  those  objects,  and  processes  of  ci-eation  or  of 
comj)osition,  governed  by  certain  fixed  laws.  I 
proceed  to  illustrate  my  meaning  by  instances.  A 
parrot  hangs  from  the  wires  of  his  cage  by  his 
beak  or  by  his  claws;  or  a  monkey  from  the 
bough  of  a  tree  by  his  paws  or  his  tail.  Each 
creature  does  so  literally  and  actually.  In  the 
first  Eclogue  of  Virgil,  the  Shepherd,  thinking  of 
the  time  when  he  is  to  take  leave  of  his  farm, 
thus  addresses  his  jroats  :  — 


o'- 


"  Non  ego  vos  posthac  viridi  projectus  in  antro 
Dumosa  ^ent/ere  procul  de  rupe  videbo." 

"  half-way  down 


Jiangs  one  who  gatliers  samphire," 
la  the  well-known  expression  of  Shakespeare,  dt- 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       289 

Hneating  an  ordinary  image  upon  the  cliffs  of 
Dover.  In  these  two  instances  is  a  slight  exertion 
of  the  faculty  which  I  denominate  Imagination,  in 
the  use  of  one  word :  neither  the  goats  nor  the 
samphire-gatherer  do  literally  hang,  as  does  the 
parrot  or  the  monkey ;  but,  presenting  to  the 
s'inses  something  of  such  an  appearance,  the  mind 
iw  its  activity,  for  its  gratification,  contemplates 
them  as  hanging. 

"  As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 
Hangs  in  tlie  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Ben<;'i:la,  or  the  isles 
Of  Ternate  or  Tidore,  whence  merchants  bring 
Their  spicy  drugs ;  they  on  the  trading  flood 
Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape 
Ply,  stemming  nightly  toward  the  Pole:  so  seemed 
Far  off  the  flying  Fiend." 

Here  is  the  full  strength  of  the  imagination  in- 
volved in  the  word  hangs,  and  exerted  upon  the 
whole  image :  First,  the  fleet,  an  aggregate  of 
many  ships,  is  represented  as  one  mighty  persoji, 
whose  track,  we  know  and  feel,  is  upon  the 
waters  ;  but,  taking  advantage  of  its  appearance 
to  the  senses,  the  Poet  dares  to  represent  it  as 
lianging  in  the  clouds,  both  for  the  gratification 
of  the  mind  in  contemplating  the  image  itself, 
and  in  reference  to  the  motion  and  appearance 
of  the  sublime  objects  to  which  it  is  com- 
pared. 

From  impressions  of  sight  we  will  pass  to  those 

VOL   V.  19 


290       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

of  sound  ;  which,  as  they  must  necessarily  be  of  a 
less  definite  character,  shall  be  selected  from  these 
volumes :  — 

"  Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  Stock-dove  I»-oods"  t 

of  the  same  bird, 

"  His  voice  was  buried  among  ti'ees, 
Yet  to  be  come  at  b"-  'he  breeze  "; 

"  0  Cuclxoo  !  Phall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice?  " 

The  stock-dove  is  said  to  coo,  a  sound  well  imi- 
tating the  note  of  the  bird  ;  but,  by  the  interven- 
tion of  tlie  metaphor  broods,  the  affections  are  called 
in  by  the  imagination  to  assist  in  marking  th-^ 
manner  in  which  the  bird  reiterates  and  prolongs 
her  soft  note,  as  if  herself  delighting  to  listen  to  it, 
and  participating  of  a  still  and  t]uiet  satisfaction, 
like  that  which  may  be  supposed  inseparable 
from  the  continuous  process  of  incubation.  "  His 
voice  was  buried  among  trees,"  a  metaphor  ex- 
pressing the  love  of  seclusion  by  which  this  Birtl 
is  maiked  ;  and  characterizing  its  note  as  not  par- 
taking of  the  shrill  and  the  piercing,  and  therefore 
more  easily  deadened  by  the  intervening  shade ; 
yet  a  note  so  peculiar  and  withal  so  [)leasing,  that 
the  breeze,  gifted  with  that  love  of  the  sound 
which  the  Poet  feels,  penetrates  the  shades  in 
which  it  is  entombed,  and  conveys  it  to  the  ear 
of  the  listener. 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC        291 

'  Shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ?  " 

This  concise  interrogation  characterizes  the  seem- 
ing ubiquity  of  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo,  and  dis- 
possesses tlie  creature  almost  of  a  corporeal  ex- 
istence ;  the  Imagination  being  tempted  to  thir 
exertion  of  her  power  by  a  consciousness  in  the 
memory  that  the  cuckoo  is  almost  perpetually  heard 
throughout  the  season  of  spring,  but  seldom  be- 
comes an  object  of  sight. 

Thus  far  of  images  independent  of  each  other, 
and  immediately  endowed  by  the  mind  with  prop- 
erties that  do  not  inhere  in  them,  upon  an  incite- 
ment from  properties  and  qualities  the  existence 
of  which  is  inherent  and  obvious.  These  processes 
of  imagination  are  carried  on  either  by  conferring 
additional  properties  upon  an  object,  or  abstracting 
from  it  some  of  those  which  it  actually  possesses, 
and  thus  enabling  it  to  react  upon  the  mind 
which  hath  performed  the  process,  like  a  new 
existence. 

I  pass  from  the  Imagination  acting  upon  an 
individual  image,  to  a  consideration  of  the  same 
faculty  employed  upon  images  in  a  conjunction  by 
which  they  modify  each  other.  The  Reader  has 
already  had  a  fine  instance  before  him  in  the 
passage  quoted  from  A^irgil,  where  the  apparently 
perilous  situation  of  the  goat,  hanging  upon  the 
shaggy  precipice,  is  contrasted  with  that  of  the 
ihepherd  contemplating  it  from   the  seclusion   )f 


292       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

the  cavern  in  which  he  lies  stretched  at  ease  and 
in  security.  Take  these  images  separately,  and 
how  unafFecting  the  picture  compared  with  that 
produced  by  their  being  thus  connected  with,  and 
opposed  to,  each  other ! 

"  As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence, 
Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy 
By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and  whence, 
So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with  sense, 
Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  which  on  a  shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  himself. 

"  Such  seemed  this  Man  ;  not  all  alive  or  dead. 
Nor  all  asleep,  in  his  extreme  old  age. 

Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  Man  stood, 

That  hetu'eth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call. 

And  moveth  altogether  if  it  move  at  all." 

Ip  these  images,  the  conferring,  the  abstracting, 
and  the  modifying  powers  of  the  Imagination,  im- 
mediately and  mediately  acting,  are  all  brought 
into  conjunction.  The  stone  is  endowed  with 
something  of  the  power  of  life  to  approximate  it  to 
the  sea-beast;  and  the  sea-beast  stripped  of  some 
of  its  vital  qualities  to  assimilate  it  to  the  stone ; 
which  intermediate  image  is  thus  treated  for  the 
purpose  of  bringing  the  original  image,  that  of  the 
stone,  to  a  nearer  resemblance  to  the  figure  and 
condition  of  tlie  aged  INIan  ;  who  is  divested  of  so 
much  of  the  indications  of  life  and  motion  as  to 
Vrint?  him  to  the  point  where  the  two  objects  unite 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.         293 

imd  coalesce  in  jtist  comparison.  After  what  has 
been  said,  the  image  of  the  cloud  need  not  be  com- 
mented upon. 

Thus  far  of  an  endowing  or  modifying  power : 
but  the  Imagination  also  shapes  and  creates  ;  and 
how  ?  Bj  innumerable  processes ;  and  in  none 
does  it  more  delight,  than  in  that  of  consolidating 
numbers  into  unity,  and  dissolving  and  separating 
unity  into  number,  —  alternations  proceeding  from, 
and  governed  by,  a  sublime  consciousness  of  the 
soul  in  her  own  mighty  and  almost  divine  powers. 
Recur  to  the  passage  already  cited  from  Milton. 
When  the  compact  Fleet,  as  one  Person,  has  been 
introduced  "  sailing  from  Bengala."  "They,"  i.  e. 
the  "  merchants,"  representing  the  fleet  resolved 
into  a  multitude  of  ships,  "  ply "  their  voy- 
age towards  the  extremities  of  the  earth :  "  so" 
(referring  to  the  word  "As  "  in  the  commencement) 
"  seemed  the  flying  Fiend ";  the  image  of  his 
Person  acting  to  recombine  the"  multitude  of  ships 
into  one  body,  —  the  point  from  -which  the  com- 
parison set  out.  "So  seemed,"  and  to  whom 
seemed  ?  To  the  heavenly  Muse  who  dictates  the 
poem,  to  the  eye  of  the  Poet's  mind,  and  to  that 
of  the  Reader,  present  at  one  moment  in  the  wide 
Ethiopian,  and  the  next  in  the  solitudes,  then  first 
broken  in  upon,  of  the  infernal  regions  ! 

"  Modo  me  Thebis,  modo  ponit  Athenis." 
Hear  again   this  mighty  Poet, — speaking  of  the 


294       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

IMcs.iiah  going  forth  to  expel  from  heaven  the 
rebelHoLis  angels :  — 

"  Attended  by  ten  thousand  thousand  Saints 
He  onward  came  :  far  oil"  his  coming  shone,"  — 

the  retinue  of  Saints,  and  tlie  Person  of  the  Mes- 
siah himself,  lost  almost  and  merged  in  the  splen- 
dor of  that  indefinite  abstraction,  "  his  coming  "  ! 

As  I  do  not  mean  here  to  treat  this  subject 
further  than  to  throw  some  light  upon  the  present 
A  oluines,  and  especially  upon  one  division  of  them, 
1  shall  spare  myself  and  the  Reader  the  trouble 
of  considering  the  Imagination  as  it  deals  with 
thoughts  and  sentiments,  as  it  regulates  the  com- 
position of  characters,  and  determines  the  course 
of  actions:  I  will  not  consider  it  (more  tiiaii  I 
have  already  done  by  implication)  as  that  power 
whicli,  in  the  language  of  one  of  my  most  esteemed 
Friends,  "draws  all  things  to  one;  which  makes 
things  animate  or  inanimate,  beings  with  their  at- 
tiibutes,  subjects  with  their  accessories,  take  one 
color  and  serve  to  one  effect."  *  The  grand  store- 
house of  enthusiastic  and  meditative  Imagination, 
of  poetical,  as  contradistinguished  from  human  and 
dramatic  Imagination,  are  the  proijhctic!  and  lyri- 
cal parts  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  the  works  of 
Milton  ;  to  which  I  cannot  forl)ear  to  add  those  of 
Spenser.     1  select  these  writers  in  preference  to 

•  Charles  Lainb  uj)on  the  genius  of  Hogarth. 


APPENDIX,    PllEFACES,    ETC.  295 

those  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  because  the 
anthropomorphitism  of  the  Pagan  religion  subject- 
ed the  minds  of  the  greatest  poets  in  those  coun- 
tries too  much  to  the  bondage  of  definite  form ; 
from  which  the  Hebrews  were  preserved  by  their 
abliorrence  of  idolatry.  This  abhorrence  was  al- 
most as  strong  in  our  great  epic  Poet,  both  from 
circumstances  of  his  life  and  from  the  constitution 
of  his  mind.  However  imbued  the  surface  might 
be  with  classical  literature,  he  was  a  Hebrew  in 
soul ;  and  all  things  tended  in  him  towards  the 
sublime.  Spenser,  of  a  gentler  nature,  maintained 
bi5  freedom  by  aid  of  his  allegorical  spirit,  at  one 
time  inciting  him  to  create  persons  out  of  abstrac- 
tions; and  at  another,  by  a  superior  effort  of  ge- 
nius, to  give  the  universality  and  permanence  of 
abstractions  to  his  human  beings,  by  means  of  attri- 
butes and  emblems  that  belong  to  the  highest  mor- 
al truths  and  the  purest  sensations,  —  of  which  his 
character  of  Una  is  a  glorious  example.  Of  the 
human  and  dramatic  Imagination  the  words  of 
Shakespeare  are  an  inexhaustible  source. 

"  I  tax   not  you,  ye  Elements,  with  unkindness ; 
1  never  gave  you  kingdoms,  called  you  Daughters  !  " 

And  if,  bearing  in  mind  the  many  Poets  distin 
gcjished  by  this  prime  quality,  "vhose  names  I  omit 
to  mention,  yet  justified    by  recollection   of    the 
insults  which  the  ignorant,  the  incapable,  and  the 
oresumptuous  have  heaped  upon   these   and   my 


294}       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC 

Other  writings,  I  may  be  permitted  to  anticipate 
tlie  judgment  of  posterity  upon  myself,  I  shall 
declare  (censurable,  I  grant,  if  the  notoriety  of  the 
fact  above  stated  does  not  justify  me)  that  I  have 
given,  in  these  unfavorable  times,  evidence  of  ex- 
ertions of  this  faculty  upon  its  worthiest  objects, 
the  external  universe,  the  moral  and  religious 
sentiments  of  Man,  his  natural  affections,  and  his 
acquired  passions ;  which  have  the  same  enno- 
bling tendency  as  the  productions  of  men,  in  this 
kind,  worthy  to  be  holden  in  undying  remem- 
brance. 

To  the  mode  in  which  Fancy  has  already  been 
characterized  as  the  power  of  evoking  and  com- 
bining, or,  as  my  friend  Mr.  Coleridge  has  stjded 
it,  "  the  aggregate  and  associative  power,"  my  ob- 
jection is  only  that  the  definition  is  too  general. 
To  airsregate  and  to  associate,  to  evoke  and 
combine,  belong  as  well  to  the  Imagination  as  to 
the  Fancy ;  but  either  the  materials  evoked  and 
combined  are  different ;  or  they  are  brought 
togetlier  under  a  different  law,  and  for  a  different 
purpose.  Fancy  does  not  require  that  the  ma- 
terials which  she  makes  use  of  should  be  suscepti- 
ble of  change  in  their  constitution,  from  her  touch  ; 
and,  where  they  admit  of  modification,  it  is  enough 
for  her  purpose  if  it  be  slight,  limited,  and  eva- 
.lescent.  Directly  the  reverse  of  these,  are  the 
desires  and  demands  of  the  Imagination.  She 
•ecdils  from  everything  but  the  plastic,  the  pliant, 


APPENDIX,  PKEFACES,  ETC.       297 

and  the  indefinite.     She  leaves  it  to  Fancy  to  de- 
scribe Queen  Mab  as  coming, 

"  In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman." 

Having  to  speak  of  stature,  she  does  not  tell  you 
that  her  gigantic  Angel  was  as  tall  as  Pompey's 
Pillar ;  much  less  that  he  was  twelve  cubits,  or 
twelve  hundred  cubits,  high ;  or  that  his  dimen- 
sions equalled  those  of  Teneriffe  or  Atlas ;  because 
these,  and  if  they  were  a  million  times  as  high  it 
would  be  the  same,  are  bounded.  The  expression 
is,  '•  His  stature  reached  the  sky  !"  the  illimitable 
firmament !  —  When  the  Imagination  frames  a 
comparison,  if  it  does  not  strike  on  the  first  pre- 
sentation, a  sense  of  the  truth  of  the  Ukeness,  from 
the  moment  that  it  is  perceived,  grows  —  and 
continues  to  grow  —  upon  the  mind  ;  the  resem- 
blance depending  less  upon  outline  of  form  and 
feature,  than  upon  expression  and  effect ;  less 
upon  casual  and  outstanding,  than  upon  inherent 
and  internal,  properties :  moreover,  the  images 
invariably  modify  each  other.  —  The  law  under 
which  the  processes  of  Fancy  are  carried  on  is  as 
capricious  as  the  accidents  of  things,  and  the  effects 
are  surprising,  playful,  ludicrous,  amusing,  tender, 
Dr  pathetic,  as  the  objects  happen  to  be  appositely 
produced  or  fortunately  combined.  Fancy  depends 
upon  the  rapidity  and  profusion  with  wliich  she 
scatters  her  thoughts   and  images  ;  trusting  thai 


298  ArrENDix,  prefaces,  etc. 

their  number,  and  the  felicity  with  Avhich  they  ;ue 
Hnked  together,  will  make  amends  for  the  want  of 
individual  value :  or  she  prides  herself  upon  the 
curious  subtilty  and  the  successful  elaboration  with 
which  she  can  detect  their  lurking  affinities.  If 
she  can  win  you  over  to  her  purpose,  and  impart 
to  you  her  feelings,  she  cares  not  how  unj^table  or 
transitory  may  be  her  influence,  knowing  tiiat  it 
will  not  be  out  of  her  power  to  resume  it  upon  an 
apt  occasion.  But  the  Imagination  is  conscious  of 
an  indestructible  dominion  ;  —  the  Soul  may  fall 
away  from  it,  not  being  able  to  sustain  its  grand- 
eur ;  but,  if  once  felt  and  acknowledged,  by  no 
act  of  any  other  faculty  of  the  mind  can  it  be  re- 
laxed, impaired,  or  diminished.  —  Fancy  is  given 
to  quicken  and  to  beguile  the  temporal  part  of  our 
nature.  Imagination  to  incite  and  to  support  the 
eternal.  —  Yet  is  it  not  the  less  true  that  Fancy, 
as  she  is  an  active,  is  also,  under  her  own  laws 
and  in  her  own  spirit,  a  creative  faculty.  In  what 
manner  Fancy  ambitiously  aims  at  a  rivalship  with 
Imagination,  and  Imagination  stoops  to  work  with 
the  materials  of  Fancy,  might  be  illustrated  from 
tlie  compositions  of  all  eloquent  writers,  whether 
in  prose  or  verse  ;  and  chiefly  from  those  of  our 
own  Country.  Scarcely  a  page  of  the  impas- 
sioned parts  of  Bishop  Taylor's  Works  can  be 
opened  that  shall  not  afford  examples.  —  Refer- 
ring tbe  Reader  to  those  inestimable  volumes.  I 
Aill  content  myself  with  placing  a  conceit  (ascribed 


APPENDIX,  PBEFACES,  ETC       299 

to  Lord  Chesterfield)  in  contrast  with  a  passage 
from  the  Paradise  Lost :  — 

"  The  dews  of  the  evening  most  carefully  shun, 
Thej-  are  the  tears  of  the  sky  for  the  loss  of  the  sun." 

After  the  transgression  of  Adam,  Milton,  with 
other  appearances  of  sympathizing  Nature,  thus 
marks  the  immediate  consequence  :  — 

"  Sky  lowered,  and,  muttering  thunder,  some  sad  drops 
Wept  at  completion  of  the  mortal  sin." 

The  associating  link  is  the  same  in  each  instance : 
Dew  and  rain,  not  distinguishable  from  the  liquid 
substance  of  tears,  are  employed  as  indications  of 
sorrow.  A  flash  of  surprise,  is  the  effect  in  the 
former  case  ;  a  flash  of  surprise,  and  nothing 
more  ;  for  the  nature  of  things  does  not  sustain 
the  combination.  In  the  latter,  the  effects  from 
the  act,  of  which  there  is  this  immediate  conse- 
quence and  visible  sign,  are  so  momentous,  that 
the  mind  acknowledges  the  justice  and  reasonable- 
ness of  the  sympathy  in  nature  so  manifested ; 
and  the  sky  weeps  drops  of  water  as  if  with  liu- 
man  eyes,  -as  "  Earth  had  before  trembled  from 
her  entrails,  and  Nature  given  a  second  groan." 

Finally,  I  will  refer  to  Cotton's  "  Ode  upon 
Winter,"  an  admirable  composition,  though  stained 
with  some  peculiarities  of  the  age  in  which  he 
Jived,  for  a  general  illustration  of  the  ^haracteris- 


300       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  hPC. 

tics  of  Fancy.  The  middle  part  of  this  ode  con- 
tains a  most  lively  description  of  the  entrance  oi 
Winter,  with  his  retinue,  as  "a  palsied  king,"  and 
yet  a  military  monarch,  —  advancing  for  conquest 
with  his  army ;  the  several  bodies  of  which,  and 
their  arms  and  equipments,  are  described  wiih  a 
rapidity  of  detail,  and  a  profusion  o?  fanciful  com- 
parisons, which  indicate  on  the  part  of  the  poet 
extreme  activity  of  intellect,  and  a  corresponding 
hurry  of  delightful  feeling.  Winter  retires  from 
the  foe  into  his  fortress,  where 

"  a  magazine 
Of  sovereign  juice  is  cellared  in; 
Liquor  that  will  the  siege  maintain, 
Should  Phoebus  ue'er  return  again." 

Though  myself  a  water-drinkei",  I  cannot  resist 
the  pleasure  of  transcribing  what  follows,  as  an  in- 
stance still  more  happy  of  Fancy  employed  in  the 
treatment  of  feeling,  than,  in  its  preceding  pas- 
sages, the  Poem  supplies  of  her  management  of 
form^. 


**  'T  is  that,  that  gives  the  poet  rage, 
And  thaws  the  gellied  blood  of  age;   - 
Matures  the  young,  restores  the  old. 
And  makes  the  fainting  coward  bold. 

"  It  lays  the  careful  head  to  rest, 
Calms  palpitations  in  the  breast, 
Eeiidcrs  our  lives'  misfortune  sweet; 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       301 

•»  Then  let  the  chill  Sirocco  blow, 
And  gird  us  round  vnth  hills  of  snow, 
Or  else  go  wiiistle  to  the  shore, 
And  make  the  hollow  mountains  roar, 

"  Whilst  we  together  jovial  sit 
Careless,  and  crowned  with  mirth  and  wit, 
Where,  though  bleak  winds  confine  us  home, 
Our  fancies  round  the  world  shall  roam. 

'  We  '11  think  of  all  the  Friends  we  know, 
And  drink  to  all  worth  di-inking  to ; 
When  having  drunk  all  thine  and  mine. 
We  rather  shall  want  healths  than  wine. 

"  But  where  Friends  fail  us,  we  '11  supply 
Our  friendships  with  our  chai-ity; 
Men  that  remote  in  sorrows  live, 
Shall  by  our  lusty  brimnaers  thrive. 

'•  We  '11  drink  the  wanting  into  wealth. 
And  those  that  languish  mto  health, 
The  afflicted  into  joy;  the  opprest 
Into  security  and  rest. 

'  The  worthy  in  disgi-ace  shall  find 
Favor  return  again  more  kind. 
And  in  restraint  who  stifled  lie. 
Shall  taste  the  air  of  liberty. 

*  The  brave  shall  triumph  in  success. 
The  lover  shall  have  mistresses. 
Poor,  unregarded  Virtue,  praise, 
And  the  neglected  Poet,  bays. 

'''hus  shall  our  healths  do  others  good, 
Wliilst  we  ourselves  do  all  we  would; 
f.<T,  freed  from  envy  and  from  care, 
What  would  we  be  but  what  we  are?  " 


302  APl'ENDJX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

"WhcL  I  Silt  down  to  write  this  Preface,  it  was 
my  intection  to  have  made  it  more  cooipreheii- 
sive  ;  but,  thinking  that  I  ought  rather  to  apolo- 
gize for  detaining  the  reader  so  long,  I  will  here 
conclude- 


POSTSCRIPT 

1835. 


L\  the  present  volume,  as  in  those  that  have 
preceded  it,  tlie  reader  will  have  found  occasion- 
ally opinions  expressed  upon  the  course  of  public 
affairs,  and  feelings  giving  vent  to  as  national  in- 
terests excited  them.  Since  nothing,  I  trust,  has 
been  uttered  but  in  the  spirit  of  reflective  patriot- 
ism, those  notices  are  left  to  produce  their  own 
effect ;  but,  among  the  many  objects  of  general 
concern,  and  the  changes  going  forward,  which  I 
have  glanced  at  in  verse,  are  some  especially  af- 
fecting the  lower  orders  of  society  :  in  reference 
to  these,  I  wish  here  to  add  a  few  words  in  plain 
prose. 

Were  I  conscious  of  being  able  to  do  justice  to 
those  important  topics,  I  might  avail  myself  of  the 
periodical  press  for  offering  anonymously  my 
thoughts,  such  as  they  are,  to  the  world ;  but  I 
feel  that,  in  procuring  attention,  they  may  derive 
some  advantage,  however  small,  from  my  name, 
in  addition  to  that  of  being  presented  in  a  less  fu- 
rtive shape.     It  is  also  not  impossible  that  the 


304:  Alr'PENDIX;    PUliFACES,    ETC. 

State  of  mind  wliicli  some  of  the  foregoing  poems 
may  have  produced  in  the  reader  will  dispose 
him  to  receive  more  readily  the  impression  which 
I  desire  to  make,  and  to  admit  the  'conclusions  I 
would  establish. 

1.  The  first  thing  that  presses  upon  my  atten- 
tion is  the  Poor-Law  Amendment  Act.  I  am 
aware  of  the  magnitude  and  complexity  of  the 
subject,  and  the  unwearied  attention  which  it  has 
received  from  men  of  far  wider  experience  than 
my  own ;  yet  I  cannot  forbear  touching  upon  one 
point  of  it,  and  to  this  I  will  confine  myself, 
though  not  insensible  to  the  objection  which  may 
reasonably  be  brought  against  treating  a  portion 
of  this,  or  any  other  great  scheme  of  civil  polity, 
separately  from  the  whole.  The  point  to  which  I 
wish  to  draw  the  reader's  attention  is,  that  all 
persons  who  cannot  find  employment,  or  procure 
wages  sufficient  to  support  the  body  in  health  and 
strength,  are  entitled  to  a  maintenance  by  law. 

This  dictate  of  humanity  is  acknowledged  in 
the  Report  of  the  Commissioners  :  but  is  there 
not  room  for  apprehension  that  some  of  the  regu- 
lations of  the  new  act  have  a  tendency  to  render 
the  principle  nugatory  by  difficulties  thrown  in 
the  way  of  applying  it  ?  If  this  be  so,  persons 
will  not  be  wanting  to  show  it,  by  examining  the 
provisions  of  the  act  in  detail,  —  an  attempt  which 
A'ould  be  quite  out  of  place  here  ;  but  it  will  not, 
liiercfore,    be   deemed   unbecoming   in    one    wlio 


API'ENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC.  305 

fears  that  the  prudence  of  the  head  may,  in  fram- 
ing some  of  those  provisions,  have  supplanted  the 
wisdom  of  the  heart,  to  enforce  a  principle  which 
cannot  be  violated  without  infringing  upon  one  fif 
the  most  precious  rights  of  the  English  people, 
and  opposing  one  of  the  most  sacred  claims  of 
civilized  humanity. 

There  can  be  no  greater  error,  in  this  depart- 
ment of  legislation,  than  the  belief  that  this  prin- 
ciple does  by  necessity  operate  for  the  degradation 
of  those  who  claim,  or  are  so  circumstanced  as  to 
make  it  likely  they  may  claim,  through  laws 
founded  upon  it,  reliefer  assistance.  The  direct 
contrary  is  the  truth :  it  may  be  unanswerably 
maintained,  that  its  tendency  is  to  raise,  not  to  de- 
press ;  by  stamping  a  value  upon  life,  which  can 
belong  to  it  only  where  the  laws  have  placed  men 
who  are  willing  to  work,  and  3'et  cannot  find  em- 
ployment, above  the  necessity  of  looking,  for  pro- 
tection against  hunger  and  other  natural  evils, 
either  to  individual  and  casual  charity,  to  despair 
and  death,  or  to  the  breach  of  laAv  by  theft,  or 
violence. 

And  here,  as  in  the  Report  of  the  Commision- 
ers,  the  fundamental  principle  has  been  recognized, 
I  am  not  at  issue  with  tliem  any  farther  than  I  am 
compelled  to  believe  that  their  "  remedial  meas- 
ures "  obstruct  the  application  of  it  more  than  the 
interests  of  society  require. 

Anj,  calling  to  mind  the  doctrines  of  poJitioaJ 

^0'.  V.  ?*) 


306       ATPKXDJV,  rREFACES,  ETC. 

economy  which  are  now  prevalent,  I  cannot  for- 
bear to  enfoi'ce  the  justice  of  the  principle,  and  to 
insist  upon  its  salutary  operation. 

And  lirst  for  its  justice  :  If  self-preservation  be 
the  first  law  of  our  nature,  would  not  every  one 
in  a  State  of  nature  be  morally  justified  in  taking 
to  himself  that  which  is  indispensable  to  such  pres- 
ervation, where,  by  so  doing,  he  would  not  rob 
another  of  that  which  might  be  equally  indispen- 
sable to  his  preservation  ?  And  if  the  value  of  life 
be  regarded  in  a  right  point  of  view,  may  it  not 
be  questioned  whether  this  right  of  preserving  life, 
at  any  expense  short  of  endangering  the  life  of 
another,  does  not  survive  man's  entering  into  the 
social  state ;  whether  this  right  can  be  surren- 
dered or  forfeited,  except  when  it  opposes  the 
divine  law,  upon  any  supposition  of  a  social  com- 
pact, or  of  any  convention  for  the  protection  of 
mere  rights  of  ^^roperty  ? 

But,  if  it  be  not  safe  to  touch  the  abstract  ques- 
tion of  man's  right  in  a  social  state  to  help  himself 
even  in  the  last  extremity,  may  we  not  still  con- 
tend for  the  duty  of  a  Christian  government,  stand- 
ing 171  loco  parentis  towards  all  its  subjects,  to 
make  such  effectual  provision,  that  no  one  shall  be 
ii  danger  of  perishing  either  through  the  neglect 
or  harshness  of  its  legislaiion  ?  Or,  waiving  this, 
is  it  not  indisputable  that  the  claim  of  the  state  to 
the  allegiance,  involves  the  protection,  of  tiie  si:V 
ject  ?     And,  as  all  rights  in  one  party  impose  a 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       307 

correlative  duty  upon  another,  it  follows  that  the 
riglit  of  the  state  to  require  the  services  of  its 
members,  even  to  the  jeoparding  of  their  lives  in 
the  common  defence,  establishes  a  right  in  the 
people  (not  to  be  gainsaid  by  utilitarians  and 
economists)  to  public  support,  when,  from  any 
cause,  they  may  be  unable  to  support  themselves. 
Let  us  now  consider  the  salutary  and  benign 
operation  of  this  principle.  Here  we  must  have 
recourse  to  elementary  feelings  of  human  nature, 
and  to  truths  which  from  their  very  obviousness 
are  apt  to  be  slighted,  till  they  are  forced  upon  our 
notice  by  our  OAvn  sufferings  or  those  of  others. 
Li  the  Paradise  Lost,  Milton  represents  Adam, 
after  the  Fall,  as  exclaiming,  in  the  anguish  of 
his  soul,  — 

"  Did  I  request  Thee,  Maker,  from  my  clay 
To  mould  me  man ;  did  I  solicit  Thee 
From  darkness  to  promote  me  ? 

My  will 

Concurred  not  to  my  being." 

Under  how  many  various  pressures  of  misery 
have  men  been  driven  thus,  in  a  strain  touching 
upon  impiety,  to  expostulate  with  the  Creator ! 
and  under  few  so  afflictive  as  when  the  source  and 
origin  of  earthly  existence  have  been  brought 
back  to  the  mind  by  its  impending  close  in  the 
pangs  of  destitution.  But  as  long  as,  in  our  leg- 
islation, due  weight  shall  be  given  to  this  principle, 
.o  man  will  be  forced  to  bewail  the  gift  of  life  in 
hopeless  want  of  the  necessaries  of  life. 


808       APPENDIX,  PKEFAOES,  ETC. 

Englishmen  have,  therefore,  by  the  progress  of 
jiviHzation  among  them,  been  placed  in  circum- 
stances more  favorable  to  piety  and  resignation 
to  the  divine  will,  than  the  inhabitants  of  other 
countries,  where  a  like  provision  has  not  been 
established.  And  as  Providence,  in  this  care  of 
our  countrymen,  acts  through  a  human  medium, 
the  objects  of  that  care  must,  in  like  manner,  be 
more  inclined  towards  a  grateful  love  of  their 
fellow-men.  Thus,  also,  do  stronger  ties  attach 
the  people  to  their  country,  whether  while  they 
tread  its  soil,  or,  at  a  distance,  think  of  their  na- 
tive land  as  an  indulgent  parent,  to  whose  arms 
even  they  who  have  been  imprudent  and  nnde- 
Berving  may,  like  the  prodigal  son,  betake  tliem- 
selves,  without  fear  of  being  rejected. 

Such  is  the  view  of  the  case  that  would  first 
present  itself  to  a  reflective  mind  ;  and  it  is  iu 
vain  to  show,  by  appeals  to  experience,  in  con- 
trast with  this  view,  that  provisions  founded  upon 
the  principle  have  promoted  profaneness  of  life, 
and  dispositions  the  reverse  of  phiIanthro])ic,  by 
spreading  idleness,  selfishness,  and  rapacity  :  for 
these  evils  have  arisen,  not  as  an  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  the  principle,  but  for  want  of  judgment 
in  framing  laws  based  upon  it ;  and,  above  all, 
from  faults  in  the  mode  of  administering  the  law. 
The  mischief  that  has  grown  to  such  a  height  from 
■'ranting  relief  in  cases  where  proper  vigilance 
vituld  have  shown  that  it  was  not  required,  or  in 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       309 

bestowing  it  in  undue  measure,  will  be  urged  by 
no  truly  enlightened  statesman  as  a  sufficient 
reason  for  banishing  the  principle  itself  from  leg- 
islation. 

Let   us  recur  to  the  miserable  states  of  con- 
sciousness that  it  precludes. 

There  is  a  story  told,  by  a  traveller  in  Spain, 
of  a  female  who,  by  a  sudden  shock  of  domestic 
calamity,  was  driven  out  of  her  senses,  and  ever 
after  looked  up  incessantly  to  the  sky,  feeling  that 
her  fellow-creatures  could  do  nothing  for  her  re- 
lief. Can  there  be  Englishmen  who,  with  a  good 
end  in  view,  would,  upon  system,  expose  their 
brother  Englishmen  to  a  like  necessity  of  looking 
upvvards  only  ;  or  downwards  to  the  earth,  after  it 
shall  contain  no  spot  where  the  destitute  can  de- 
mand, by  civil  right,  what  by  right  of  nature  they 
are  entitled  to  ? 

Suppose  the  objects  of  our  sympathy  not  sunk 
into  this  blank  despair,  but  wandering  about  as 
strangers  in  streets  and  ways,  with  the  hope  of 
succor  from  casual  charity  ;  what  have  we  gained 
by  such  a  change  of  scene  ?  Woful  is  the  con- 
dition of  the  famished  Northern  Indian,  depend- 
ent, among  winter  snows,  upon  the  chance-nas- 
sage  of  a  herd  of  deer,  from  which  one,  if  broucrnt 
down  by  his  rifle-gun,  may  be  made  the  means  of 
keeping  him  and  his  companions  alive.  As  mis- 
erable is  that  of  some  savage  Islander,  who,,  v-'hen 
the   land  has  ceased    to    afford    him    sustenance, 


310  APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

watches  for  food  which  the  wave.s  may  cast  un.  or 
in  vain  endeavors  to  extract  it  from  the  inexplora- 
ble  deep.  But  neither  of  these  is  in  a  state  of 
wretchedness  comparable  to  that  which  is  so  often 
endured  in  civilized  society :  multitudes,  in  all 
ages,  have  known  it,  of  whom  may  be  said :  — 

"  Homeless,  near  a  thousand  homes  they  stood, 
And  near  a  thousand  tables  pined,  and  wanted  food." 

Justly  might  I  be  accused  of  wasting  time  in  an 
uncalled-for  attempt  to  excite  the  feelings  of  the 
reader,  if  systems  of  political  economy,  widely 
spread,  did  not  impugn  the  principle,  and  if  IK'S 
safeguards  against  such  extremities  were  left  un- 
impaired. It  is  broadly  asserted  by  many,  that 
every  man  who  endeavors  to  find  work,  may  find 
it :  were  this  assertion  capable  of  being  verified, 
there  still  would  remain  a  question,  what  kind  of 
work,  and  how  far  may  the  laborer  be  fit  for  it  ? 
For  if  sedentary  work  is  to  be  exchanged  for 
standing,  and  some  light  and  nice  exercise  of  the 
fingers,  to  which  an  artisan  has  been  accustomed 
all  his  life,  for  severe  labor  of  the  arms,  the  best 
efforts  would  turn  to  little  account,  and  occasion 
■would  be  given  for  the  unthinking  and  the  unfeel- 
ing unwarrantably  to  reproach  those  who  are  put 
U|)on  such  employment,  as  idle,  froward,  and  un- 
worthy of  relief,  either  by  law  or  in  any  other  way  ! 
Were  this  statement  correct,  there  would  indeed 
be  an  end  of  the  argument,  the  principle  here  main- 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       311 

tamed  would  be  superseded.  But,  alas  !  it  is  far 
otherwise.  That  principle,  applicable  to  the  bene- 
fit of  all  countries,  is  indispensable  for  England, 
upon  whose  coast  families  are  perpetually  deprived 
of  their  support  by  shipwreck,  and  where  large 
masses  of  men  are  so  liable  to  be  thrown  out  of 
their  ordinary  means  of  gaining  bread,  by  changes 
in  commercial  intercourse,  subject  mainly  or  solely 
to  the  will  of  foreign  powers ;  by  new  discoveries 
in  arts  and  manufactures  ;  and  by  reckless  laws, 
in  conformity  with  theories  of  political  economy, 
which,  whether  right  or  wrong  in  the  abstract,  have 
proved  a  scourge  to  tens  of  thousands,  by  the  ab- 
ruptness with  which  they  have  been  carried  into 
practice. 

But  it  is  urged,  —  Refuse  altogether  compulsory 
relief  to  the  able-bodied,  and  the  number  of  those 
who  stand  in  need  of  relief  will  steadily  diminish, 
through  a  conviction  of  an  absolute  necessity  for 
greater  forethought,  and  more  prudent  care  of  a 
man's  earnings.  Undoubtedly  it  would,  but  so 
also  would  it,  and  in  a  much  greater  degree,  if  the 
legislative  provisions  were  retained,  and  parochial 
relief  administered  under  the  care  of  the  upper 
classes,  as  it  ought  to  be.  For  it  has  been  invaria- 
bly found,  that  w^herever  the  funds  have  been 
raised  and  applied  under  the  superintendence  of 
gentlemen  and  substantial  proprietors,  acting  in 
vestries,  and  as  overseers,  pauperism  has  dimin- 
khed  accordingly.     Proper   care  in  that  quarter 


512  AFrixnix,  pkkkacks,  etc 


tvouM  efFecfually  check  what  is  felt  in  some  dis- 
tricts to  be  one  of  the  worst  evils  in  the  poor  law 
system,  namely,  the  readiness  of  small  and  needy 
proprietors  to  join  in  imposing  rates  that  seeming- 
ly subject  them  to  great  hardships,  while,  in  fact* 
this  is  done  with  a  mutual  understanding,  tliat  the 
relief  each  is  ready  to  bestow  upon  his  still  poorer 
neighbors  will  be  granted  to  himself,  or  his  rela- 
tives, should  it  hereafter  be  applied  for. 

But  let  us  look  to  inner  sentiments  of  a  nobler 
quality,  in  order  to  know  what  we  have  to  build 
upon.  Affecting  proofs  occur  in  every  one's  ex- 
perience, who  is  acquainted  with  the  unfortunate 
and  tlie  indigent,  of  their  unwillingness  to  derive 
their  subsistence  from  aught  but  their  own  funds 
or  labor,  or  to  ))e  indebted  to  parochial  assistance 
for  the  attainment  of  any  object,  however  dear  to 
them.  A  case  was  reported,  the  other  day,  from 
a  coroner's  inquest,  of  a  pair  who  through  the  space 
of  four  years  had  carried  about  their  dead  infant 
from  house  to  house,  and  from  lodging  to  lodging, 
as  their  necessities  drove  them,  rather  than  ask 
the  parish  to  bear  the  expense  of  its  interment : 
—  the  poor  creatures  lived  in  the  hope  of  one  day 
being  able  to  bui-y  their  child  at  their  own  cost. 
It  must  have  been  heart-rending  to  see  and  hear 
the  mother,  who  had  been  called  upon  to  account 
for  the  state  in  whicli  the  body  was  found,  make 
this  ilcposition.  By  some,  judging  coldly,  if  not 
harshly,  this  conduct  might  be  imputed  to  an  un- 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       313 

iparrantable  pride,  as  she  and  her  husband  had,  it 
is  true,  been  once  in  prosperity.  But  examples, 
where  the  spirit  of  independence  works  with  equal 
strength  though  not  with  like  miserable  accom- 
paniments, are  frequently  to  be  found  even  yet 
among  the  humblest  peasantry  and  mechanics. 
There  is  not,  then,  sufficient  cause  for  doubting 
that  a  like  sense  of  honor  may  be  revived  among 
the  people,  and  their  ancient  habits  of  indepen- 
dence restored,  without  resoi'ting  to  those  severi- 
ties which  the  new  Poor  Law  Act  has  intro- 
duced. 

But  even  if  the  surfaces  of  things  only  are  to  be 
examined,  we  have  a  right   to   expect  tluit  law- 
givers should  take  into  account  the  various  tem- 
pers and  dispositions  of  mankind  :  while  some  are 
led,    by    the  existence  of  a  legislative  provision, 
into  idleness  and    extravagance,    tiie    economical 
virtues  might  be  cherished  in  others  by  the  knowl- 
edge that,  if  all  their  efforts  fail,  they  have  in  the 
Poor  Laws  a  "■  refuge  from  the  storm  and  a  shadow 
from  the  heat."      Despondency  and  distraction  are 
no  friends  to  prudence  :    the  springs  of  industry 
will  relax,  if  cheerfulness  be  destroyed  by  anxi- 
ety ;  without  hope  men  become  reckless,  and  have 
a  sullen  pride  in  adding  to  the  heap  of  their  own 
wretchedness.     He  who  feels  that  he  is  abandoned 
by  his  fellow-men  will  be  almost  irresistibly  driven 
to  care  little  for  himself;  will  lose  his  self-respect 
accordingly,  and  with  that  loss,  what  -emains  to 
'iiin  of  virtue  ? 


314  AITKXUIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

With  all  due  deference  to  the  particular  rx- 
perience  and  general  intelligence  of"  the  individ- 
uals who  framed  the  Act,  and  of  those  who  in 
and  out  of  Parliament  have  approved  of  and  sup- 
ported it,  it  may  he  said,  that  it  proceeds  too 
much  upon  the  presumption  that  it  is  a  laboring 
man's  own  fault  if  he  be  not,  as  the  phrase  is,  be- 
forehand with  the  world.  But  the  most  prudent 
are  liable  to  be  thrown  back  by  sickness,  cutting 
them  off  from  labor,  and  causing  to  them  expense  : 
and  who  but  has  observed  how  distress  creeps 
upon  multitudes  without  misconduct  of  their  own  ; 
and  merely  from  a  gradual  fall  in  the  price  of  la- 
bor, without  a  correspondent  one  in  the  price  of 
provisions ;  so  that  men  who  may  have  ventured 
upon  the  marriage  state  with  a  fair  prospect  of 
maintaining  their  families  in  comfort  and  happi- 
ness, see  them  reduced  to  a  pittance  which  no 
effort  of  theirs  can  increase  ?  Let  it  be  remem- 
bered, also,  that  there  are  thousands  with  whom 
vicious  habits  of  expense  are  not  the  cause  why 
they  do  not  store  up  their  gains ;  but  they  are 
generous  and  kind-hearted,  and  ready  to  help  their 
kindred  and  friends  ;  moreover,  they  have  a  faith 
in  Providence,  that  those  who  have  been  prompt 
to  assist  others  will  not  be  left  destitute,  should 
they  themselves  come  to  need.  By  acting  from 
these  blended  feelings,  numbers  have  rendered 
themselves  incapable  of  standing  up  against  a  sud- 
den r'nerse.     Nevertheless,  these  men,  in  cons- 


/ 


A.riM-:NUIX,    PKEFAGKSj    ETC.  315 

aion  with  all  who  have  the  misfortune  to  be  in 
want,  if  many  theorists  had  their  wish,  would  be 
thrown  upon  one  or  other  of  those  three  sharp 
points  of  condition  before  adverted  to,  from  which 
the  intervention  of  law  has  hitherto  saved  them. 
All  that  has  been  said  tends  to  show  how  the 
principle    contended    for    makes    the   gift  of  life 
more  valuable,  and  has,  it  may  be  hoped,  led  to 
the  conclusion  that  its  legitimate  operation  is   to 
make  men  worthier  of  that  gift:  in  other  words,  not 
lO  degrade,  but  to  exalt  human  nature.     But  the 
subject  must  not  be  dismissed  without  adverting 
to   the   indirect  influence   of  the   same   principle 
upon    the   moral  sentiments   of  a   people  among 
whom  it  is   embodied  in  law.     In   our  criminal 
jurisprudence  there  is  a  maxim,  deservedly  eulo- 
gized, that  it  is  better  that  ten  guilty  persons 
should  escape,  than  that  one  innocent  man  should 
suffer;  so,  also,  might  it  be  maintained,  with  re- 
gard to  the  Poor  Laws,  that  it  is  better  for  the  in- 
terests  of  humanity  among  the  people  at  large,  that 
ten  undeserving  should  partake  of  the  funds  pro- 
vided, than  that  one  morally  good  man,  through 
want  of  relief,  should  either  have  his  principles 
corrupted,  or  his  energies  destroyed;   than  that 
tuch  a  one  should  either  be- driven  to  do  wrong, 
or  be  cast  to  the  earth  in  utter  hopelessness.     In 
France,  the  English  maxim  of  criminal  jurispru- 
dence is  reversed  ;  there,  it  is  deemed  better  that 
■iii\  innocent  men  should  suffer,  than  one  guilty 


SJ6  ArrENDix,  tuefaces,  etc. 

escape  :  in  France,  there  is  no  universal  provi?ion 
for  the  poor  ;  and  we  may  judge  of  the  small 
value  set  upon  human  life  in  the  metropolis  of 
tliat  country,  by  merely  noticing  the  disrespect 
with  which,  after  death,  the  body  is  treated,  not 
by  the  thoughtless  vulgar,  but  in  schools  of  anato- 
my, presided  over  by  men  allowed  to  be,  in  their 
own  art  and  in  physical  science,  among  the  most  en- 
lightened in  the  world.  In  the  East,  where  coun- 
tries are  overrun  with  population  as  with  a  weed, 
infinitely  more  respect  is  shown  to  the  remains 
of  the  deceased ;  and  what  a  bitter  mockery  is 
it,  that  this  insensibility  should  be  found  where 
civil  polity  is  so  busy  in  minor  regulations,  and 
ostentatiously  careful  to  gratify  the  luxurious  pro- 
pensities, whether  social  or  intellectual,  of  the 
multitude  !  Irreligion  is,  no  doubt,  much  con- 
cerned with  this  offensive  disrespect  shown  to  the 
bodies  of  the  dead  in  France ;  but  it  is  mainly  at- 
tributable to  the  state  in  which  so  many  of  the 
living  are  left  by  the  absence  of  compulsory  pro- 
vision for  the  indigent,  so  humanely  established  by 
the  law  of  England. 

Sights  of  abject  misery,  perpetually  recurring, 
harden  tiie  heart  of  the  comminiity.  In  tlie  peru- 
sal of  history,  and  of  works  of  fiction,  we  are 
not  indeed,  unwilling  to  have  our  conuniseration 
«\cited  by  such  objects  of  distress  as  tliey  present 
to  us ;  but,  in  tlie  concerns  of  real  life,  men 
know  that  sucii  emotions  are  not  given   to  be  in- 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       317 

dnlged  for  their  own  sakes  :  there,  the  conscience 
declares  to  them  that  sympathy  must  be  followed 
by  action  ;  and  if  there  exist  a  previous  conviction 
that  the  power  to  relieve  is  utterly  inadequate  to 
the  demand,  the  eye  shrinks  from  communication 
with  wretchedness,  and  pity  and  compassion  lan- 
guish, like  any  other  qualities  that  are  deprived 
of  their  natural  aliment.     Let  these  consideration? 
be  duly  weighed  by  those  who  trust  to  tlie  hope 
that  an  increase  of  private  charity,  with  all  its 
advantages  of  superior  discrimination,  would  more 
than  compensate  for  the  abandonment    of   those 
principles   the  wisdom  of  which  has  been  here  in- 
sisted upon.      How  discouraging,  also,  would  be 
the  sense  of  injustice,  which  could  not  fail  to  arise 
in  the  minds  of  the  well  disposed,  if  the  burden  of 
supporting  the  poor,  a  burden  of  which  the  selfish 
have  hitherto  by  compulsion  borne  a  share,  should 
now,  or  hereafter,  be  thrown  exclusively  upon  the 
benevolent. 

By  having  put  an  end  to  the  Slave-Trade  and 
Slaverv,  the  British  people  are  exalted  in  the 
scale  of  humanity  ;  and  they  cannot  but  feel  so,  if 
they  look  into  themselves,  and  duly  consider  their 
relation  to  God  and  their  fellow-creatures.  That 
was  a  noble  advance  ;  but  a  retrograde  move- 
ment will  assuredly  be  made,  if  ever  the  principle, 
which  has  been  here  defended,  should  be  either 
avowedly  abandoned  or  but  ostensibly  retained. 
But,  after  all,  there  may  be  little  reason  to  ap- 


S18  APPENDIX,    PRKFACES,  'iCTC. 

[irehend  permanent  injury  from  any  experiment 
that  may  be  tried.  On  the  one  side  will  be  hu- 
man nature  rising  up  in  her  own  defence,  and  on 
tlie  other  prudential  selfishness  acting  to  the  same 
purpose,  from  a  conviction  that,  without  a  compul- 
sory provision  for  the  exigencies  of  the  laboring 
multitude,  that  degree  of  ability  to  regulate  the 
price  of  labor,  which  is  indispensable  for  the  rea- 
sonable interest  of  arts  and  manufactures,  cannot 
in  Great  Britain  be  upheld. 

II.  In  a  poem  of  the  foregoing  collection,  al- 
lusion is  made  to  the  state  of  the  workmen  con- 
gregated in  manufactories.  In  order  to  relieve 
many  of  the  evils  to  which  that  class  of  society 
are  subject,  and  to  establith  a  better  harmony  be- 
tween them  and  their  employers,  it  would  be  well 
to  repeal  such  laws  as  prevent  the  formation  of 
joint-stock  companies.  There  are,  no  doubt,  many 
and  great  obstacles  to  the  formation  and  salutary 
working  of  these  societies,  inherent  in  the  mind  ot 
those  whom  they  would  obviously  benefit.  But 
the  combinations  of  masters  to  keep  down,  unjust- 
ly, the  price  of  labor,  would  be  fairly  checked  by 
them,  as  far  as  they  were  practicable  ;  they  would 
ancoui'age  economy,  inasmuch  as  they  would  en- 
able a  man  to  draw  profit  from  his  savings,  bj. 
investing  them  in  buildings  or  machinery  for  jiro- 
ojftSts  of  manufacture  with  which  he  was  habitu- 
ally connected.     His  little  capital  would  then  Ije 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       319 

working  for  him  Avhile  lie  was  at  rest  or  asleep  ; 
he  would  more  cleiirly  perceive  the  necessity  of 
capital  for  carrying  on  great  works  ;    he   would 
better  learn  to  respect  the  larger  portions  of  it  in 
the  hands  of  others  ;  he  would  be  less  tempted  to 
join  in  unjust  combinations;  and,  for  the  sake  of  his 
own  property,  if  not  for  higher  reasons,  he  would 
be  slow  to  promote  local  disturbance,  or  endanger 
public  tranquillity  ;  he  would,  at  least,  be  loth  to 
act  in  that   way   hwioingly :  for   it  is  not   to   be 
denied  that  such  societies  might  be  nurseries  of 
opinions  unfavorable  to  a  mixed   constitution   ol 
government,    like    that    of   Great   Britain.     The 
democratic  and  republican  spirit  which  they  might 
be  apt  to  foster  would  not,  however,  be  dangerous 
in  itself,  but  only  as  it  might  act  without  being 
sufficiently  counterbalanced,  either  by  landed  pro- 
prietorship, or  by  a  Church  extending  itself  so  as 
to  embrace  an  ever-growing  and  ever-shifting  pop- 
ulation  of  mechanics  and    artisans.     But   if  the 
tendencies  of  suA  societies  would  be  to  make  the 
men  prosper  .who  might  belong  to  them,   rulers 
itnd  legislators  should  rejoice  in  the  result,  and  do 
their  duty  to  the  state  by  upholding  and  extending 
the  influence  of  that  Church  to  which  it  owes,  in 
so  great  a  measure,  its  safety,  its  prosperity,  and 
Us  glory. 

This,  in  the  temper  of  the  present  times,  may 
be  difficult,  but  it  is  become  indispensable,  sinr'c 
Kirge  towns   in  great   numbers  have   sprung  up 


320  APPENDIX,    PUKFACKS,    KTC. 

and  others  have  increa^'ed  tenfold,  with  little,  or 
no  dependence  upon  the  gentry  and  the  landed 
proprietors  ;  and  apart  frcm  those  mitigated  feu- 
dal institutions,  which,  till  of  late,  have  acted  so 
powerfully  upon  the  composition  of  the  House  of 
Conmions.  Now  it  may  be  affirmed,  that,  in 
quarters  where  there  is  not  an  attachment  to  the 
Church,  or  the  landed  aristocracy,  and  a  pride  in 
supporting  them,  there  the  people  will  dislike  both, 
and  be  ready,  upon  such  incitements  as  are  per- 
petually recurring,  to  join  in  attempts  to  overthrow 
them.  There  is  no  neutral  ground  here  :  f)-oni 
want  of  due  attention  to  the  state  of  society  in  lai'ge 
towns  and  manufacturing  districts,  and  ignorance 
or  disregard  of  these  obvious  truths,  innumer- 
able well-meaning  persons  became  zealous  sup- 
porters of  a  Reform  Bill,  the  qualities  and  powers 
of  which,  whether  destructive  or  constructive,  they 
would  otherwise  have  been  afraid  of;  and  even 
the  framers  of  that  bill,  swayed  as  they  might  be 
by  party  resentments  and  personal  ambition,  could 
not  have  gone  so  far,  iiad  not  they  too  been  lam- 
entably ignorant  or  neglectful  of  the  same  truths 
both  of  fact  and  philosopiiy. 

But  let  that  pass  ;  and  let  no  opponent  of  the 
bill  be  tempted  to  compliment  his  own  foresight, 
by  exaggerating  the  mi-chiefs  and  dangers  that 
have  sprung  fium  it :  let  not  time  be  wasted  in 
profitless  regrets  ;  and  let  those  piirty  distinctions 
lanisli  to  their  very   names  tluit  have  separated 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       321 

men  who,  whatever  course  they  may  have  pursued, 
have  ever  had  a  bond  of  union  iu_  the  wish  to 
save  the  limited  monarchy,  and  those  other  insti- 
tutions that  have,  under  Providence,  rendered  for 
so  long  a  period  of  time  this  country  the  happiest 
and  worthiest  of  which  there  is  any  record  since 
the  foundation  of  civil  society. 

III.  A  philosophic  mind  is  best  pleased  when 
looking  at  reHgion  in  its  spiritual  bearing  ;  as  a 
guide  of  conduct,  a  solace  under  affliction,  and  a 
support  amid  the  instabihties  of  mortal  life :  but 
the  Church  having  been  forcibly  brought  by  polit- 
ical considerations  to  my  notice,  while  treating  of 
the  laboring  classes,  I  cannot  forbear  saying  a  few 
words  upon  that  momentous  topic. 

There  is  a  loud  clamor  for  extensive  change 
in  that  department.  The  clamor  would  be  entitled 
to  more  respect,  if  they  who  are  the  most  eager  to 
swell  it  with  their  voices  were  not  generally  t'e 
most  ignorant  of  the  real  state  of  the  Church,  and 
the  service  it  renders  to  the  community.  Reform 
is  the  word  employed.  Let  us  pause  and  consid- 
er what  sense  it  is  apt  to  carry,  and  how  things 
are  confounded  by  a  lax  use  of  it.  The  great  re- 
liu;ious  Reformation,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  did 
not  profess  to  be  a  new  construction,  but  a  resto- 
ration of  something  fallen  into  decay,  or  put  out 
of  sight.  That  familiar  and  justifiable  use  of  the 
word  seems  to  have  paved  the  way  for  fallaciea 

VOL.  v.  21 


822       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

with  respect  to  the  term  Reform,  which  it  is  difficult 
to  escape  from.  Were  we  to  speak  of  improve- 
ment, and  the  correction  of  abuses,  we  should  run 
less  risk  of  being  deceived  ourselves,  or  of  mis- 
leading others.  We  should  be  less  likely  to  fall 
blindly  into  the  belief,  that  the  change  demanded 
is  a  renewal  of  something  that  has  existed  before, 
and  that  therefore  we  have  experience  on  our 
side  ;  nor  should  we  be  equally  tempted  to  beg 
the  question,  tliat  the  change  for  which  we  are 
eager  must  be  advantageous.  From  generation  to 
generation,  men  are  the  dupes  of  words ;  and  it  is 
painful  to  observe,  that  so  many  of  our  species 
are  most  tenacious  of  those  opinions  which  they 
have  formed  with  the  least  consideration.  They 
who  are  the  readiest  to  meddle  with  public  affairs, 
whether  in  church  or  state,  fly  to  generalities,  that 
they  may  be  eased  from  the  trouble  of  tliinking 
about  particulars  ;  and  thus  is  deputed  to  mechan- 
ical instrumentality  the  work  which  vital  knowl- 
edge only  can  do  well. 

•'  Abolish  pluralities,  have  a  resident  incumbent 
in  every  parish,"  is  a  favorite  cry ;  but,  without 
adverting  to  other  obstacles  in  the  way  of  this 
specious  scheme,  it  may  be  asked  what  benefit 
would  accrue  fi'ora  its  indiscriminate  adoption,  to 
connt«;rbalance  the  harm  it  would  introduce,  by 
neailv  extinguishing  tlie  order  of  curates,  unless 
the  revenues  of  the  Church  should  grow  with  the 
population,  and    be   greatly   increased    in    manv 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 


323 


thinly  peopled  districts,  especially  among  the  par- 
ishes of  the  North. 

The  order  of  curates  is  so  beneficial,  that  some 
particular  notice  of  it  seems  to  be  required  in  this 
place.     For  a  church  poor  as,  relatively  to  the 
numbers  of  people,  that  of  England  is,  and  proba- 
bly will  continue  to  be,  it  is  no  small  advantage  to 
have  youthful  servants,  who  will  work  upon  the 
wages  of  hope  and  expectation.     Still  more  ad- 
vantageous is  it  to  have,  by  means  of  this  order, 
young  men  scattered  over  the  country,  who,  being 
more  detached  from  the  temporal  concerns  of  the 
benefice,  have  more  leisure  for  improvement  and 
study,  and  are  less  subject  to  be  brought  into  sec- 
ular   collision   with    those  w4io   are   under    their 
spiritual  guardianship.     The  curate,  if  he  reside 
at  a  distance  from  the  incumbent,  undertakes  the 
requisite  responsibilities  of  a  temporal  kind,  in  that 
modified  way  which  prevents  him,  as  a  new-comer, 
from  being  charged  with  selfishness  :  while  it  pre- 
pares him  for  entering  upon  a  benefice  of  his  own, 
with  something  of  a  suitable  experience.     If  he 
should  act  under  and  in  cooperation  with  a  resi- 
dent incumbent,  the  gain  is  mutual.     His  studies 
will  probably  be  assisted ;  and  his  training,  man- 
aged by  a  superior,  will  not  be  liable  to  relapse  in 
matters  of  prudence,  seemliness,  or  in  any   of  the 
highest  cares  of  his  functions ;  and  by  way  of  re- 
turn for  these  benefits  to  the  pupil,  it  will  often 
happen  that  the  zeal  of  a  middle-aged  or  declining 


321       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

incumbent  will  be  revived,  by  being  in  near  com- 
munion with  the  ardor  of  youth,  when  his  own 
efforts  may  have  languished  through  a  melan- 
choly consciousness  that  they  have  not  produced 
as  much  good  among  his  flock  as,  when  he  first 
entered  upon  the  charge,  he  fondly  hoped. 

Let  one  remark,  and  that  not  the  least  impor- 
tant, be  added.  A  curate,  entering  for  the  first 
time  upon  his  office,  comes  from  college  aftei*  a 
course  of  expense,  and  with  such  inexperience  in 
the  use  of  money,  that,  in  his  new  situation,  he  is 
apt  to  fall  unawares  into  pecuniary  difficulties. 
If  this  happens  to  him,  much  more  likely  is  it  to 
happen  to  the  youthful  incumbent;  whose  rela- 
tions, to  his  parishioners  and  to  society,  are  more 
complicated  ;  and,  his  income  being  larger  and 
independent  of  another,  a  costlier  style  of  living 
is  required  of  him  by  public  opinion.  If  embar- 
rassment should  ensue,  and  with  that  unavoidably 
some  loss  of  respectability,  his  future  usefulness 
will  be  proportionably  impaired:  not  so  with  the 
curate,  for  he  can  easily  remove  and  start  afresh, 
with  a  stock  of  experience  and  an  unblemished 
reputation  ;  whereas  the  early  indisci-etions  of  an 
incumbent,  being  rarely  forgotten,  may  be  im- 
pediments to  the  efficacy  of  his  ministry  for  the 
remainder  of  his  life.  The  same  observations 
would  apply  with  equal  force  to  doctrine.  A 
young  minister  is  liable  to  errors,  from  his  notions 
bein"  either  too  lax,  or   overstrained.      In   both 


APPENDIX,  PKEFACES,  ETC.       325 

cases  it  would  prove  injurious  that  the  error  should 
be  remeuibered,  after  study  and  x'eflection,  with  ad- 
vancing years,  shall  have  brought  him  to  a  clearer 
discernment  of  the  truth,  and  better  judgment  in 
the  application  of  it. 

It  must  be  acknowledged,  that,  among  the  regu- 
lations of  ecclesiastical  polity,  none  at  first  view 
are  more  attractive  than  that  which  prescribes  for 
every  parish  a  resident  incumbent.  How  agree- 
able to  picture  to  one's  self,  as  has  been  done  by 
poets  and  romance-writers,  from  Chaucer  down  to 
Goldsmith,  a  man  devoted  to  his  ministerial  office, 
with  not  a  wish  or  a  thought  ranging  beyond  the 
circuit  of  its  cares!  Nor  is  it  in  poetry  and  fiction 
only  that  such  characters  are  found ;  they  are 
scattered,  it  is  hoped  not  sparingly,  over  real  life, 
especially  in  sequestered  and  rural  districts,  where 
there  is  but  small  influx  of  new  inhabitants,  and 
little  change  of  occupation.  The  spix-it  of  the 
Gospel,  unaided  by  acquisitions  of  profane  learn- 
ing and  experience  in  the  world,  —  that  spirit,  and 
the  obligations  of  the  sacred  office,  may,  in  sucli 
situations,  suffice  to  effect  most  of  what  is  needful. 
But  for  the  complex  state  of  society  that  prevails 
in  England,  much  more  is  required,  both  in  large 
towns,  and  in  many  extensive  districts  of  the 
country.  A  minister  there  should  not  only  be 
irreproachable  in  manners  and  morals,  but  ac- 
complished in  learning,  as  far  as  is  possible  witli- 
3ut  sacrifice  of  the  least  of  his  pastoral  duties.     As 


326       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

necessary,  perhaps  more  so,  is  it  that  he  sliould 
he  a  citizen  as  well  as  a  scholar  ;  thorouglily  ac- 
quainted with  the  structui-e  of  society,  and  the  con- 
stitution of  civil  government,  aiid  able  to  reason 
upon  both  with  the  most  expert ;  all  ultimately  in 
order  to  support  the  truths  of  Christianity,  and  to 
diffuse  its  blessings. 

A  young  man  coming  fresh  from  the  place  of 
his  education  cannot  have  brought  with  him  these 
accomplishments ;  and  if  the  scheme  of  equaliz- 
ing church  incomes,  which  many  advisers  are 
much  bent  upon,  be  realized,  so  that  there  should 
be  little  or  no  secular  inducement  for  a  clergyman 
to  desire  a  removal  from  the  spot  where  he  may 
chance  to  have  been  first  set  down  ;  surely  not 
only  opportunities  for  obtaining  the  requisite  qual- 
ifications would  be  diminished,  but  the  motives  for 
desiring  to  obtain  them  would  be  proportionably 
weakened.  And  yet  these  qualifications  are  in- 
dispensable for  the  diffusion  of  that  knowledge,  by 
which  alone  the  political  philosophy  of  the  New 
Testament  can  be  rightly  expounded,  and  its  pre- 
cepts adequately  enforced.  In  these  times,  when 
the  press  is  daily  exercising  so  gi-eat  a  power  over 
the  minds  of  the  people,  for  wrong  or  for  right  aa 
may  happen,  that  preacher  ranks  among  the  first 
of  benefactors,  who,  without  stooping  to  the  direct 
treatment  of  current  politics  and  passing  events, 
can  liirnish  infallible  guidance  through  tJie  delu- 
sions liiat  surround  them  ;  and  who,  ap])ealing  to 


APPENDIX,  PKEFACKS,  ETC       327 

the  sanctions  of  Scripture,  may  place  the  grounds 
of  its  injunctions  in  so  clear  a  light,  that  disaffec- 
tion shall  cease  to  be  cultivated  as  a  laudable  pro- 
pensity, and  loyalty  cleansed  from  the  dishonor  of 
a  blind  and  prostrate  obedience. 

It  is  not,  however,  in  regard  to  civic  duties  alone, 
lliat  this  knowledge  in  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  is 
important ;  it  is  still  more  so  for  softening  and  sub- 
duing private  and  personal  discontents.  In  all 
places,  and  at  all  times,  men  have  gratuitously 
troubled  themselves,  because  their  survey  of  the 
dispensations  of  Providence  has  been  partial  and 
narrow  ;  but  now  that  readers  are  so  greatly  multi- 
plied, men  judge  as  they  are  taxight,  and  repinings 
are  engendered  everywhere,  by  imputations  being 
cast  upon  the  government ;  and  are  prolonged 
or  aggravated  by  being  ascribed  to  misconduct 
or  injustice  in  rulers,  when  the  individual  himself 
only  is  in  fault.  If  a  Christian  pastor  be  compe- 
tent to  deal  with  these  humors,  as  they  may  be 
dealt  with,  and  by  no  members  of  society  so  success- 
fully, both  from  more  frequent  and  more  favora- 
ble opportunities  of  intercourse,  and  by  aid  of  the 
authority  with  which  he  speaks,  he  will  be  a  teach- 
er of  moderation,  a  dispenser  of  the  wisdom  that 
blunts  approaching  distress  by  submission  to  God's 
will,  and  lightens,  by  patience,  grievances  which 
j^ainiot  be  removed. 

We  live  in  times  Avhen  nothing,  of  public  good 
<it  least,  is  generally  acceptable,  but  what  we  be- 


328       APPENDIX,  PRFKACES,  ETC. 

Hey  ft  can  be  traced  to  preconceived  intention,  and 
specific  acts  and  formal  contrivances  of  human  un- 
derstanding. A  Ciiristian  instructor  thoroughly 
"accomplished  would  be  a  standing  restraint  upon 
such  presumptuousness  of  judgment,  by  impress- 
ing the  truth  that. 

In  the  unreasoning  progress  of  the  world, 

A  wiser  spirit  is  at  work  for  us, 

A  better  eye  than  ours.  MS. 

Revelation  points  to  the  purity  and  peace  of  a 
future  world;  but  our  sphere  of  duty  is  upon  earth ; 
and  the  relations  of  impure  and  conflicting  things 
to  each  other  must  be  understood,  or  we  shall  be 
perpetually  going  wrong,  in  all  but  goodness  of  in- 
tention ;  and  goodness  of  intention  will  itself  relax 
through  frequent  disappointment.  How  desirable, 
then,  is  it,  that  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  should 
be  versed  in  the  knowledsre  of  existinsj  facts,  and 
be  accustomed  to  a  wide  range  of  social  experi- 
ence !  Nor  is  it  less  desirable  for  the  purpose  of 
counterbalancing  and  tempering  in  his  own  mind 
that  ambition  with  which  spiritual  power  is  as  apt 
to  be  tainted  as  any  other  species  of  power  which 
men  covet  or  possess. 

It  must  be  obvious  that  the  scope  of  the  argu- 
ment is  to  discourage  an  attempt  which  would  in- 
troduce into  the  Church  of  England  an  equality  ol 
income,  and  station,  upon  tlie  model  of  that  of  Scot- 
'an'l.     The  sound(;r  part  of  the   Scottisli   nation 


APrKNDlX,  PREFACES,  ETC 


329 


know  w  liat  good  their  ancestors  derived  from  their 
Church,  and  feel  how  deeply  the  living  generation 
is  indebted  to  it.     They  respect  and  love  it,  as  ac- 
commodated in  so  great  a  measure  to  a  compara- 
tively poor  country,  through  the  far  greater  por- 
tion of  which  prevails  a  uniformity  of  employment; 
but   the  acknowledged  deficiency   of  theological 
learning  among  the  clergy  of  that  Church  is  easily 
accounted  for  by  this  very  equality.     What  else 
may  be  wanting  there,  it  would  be  unpleasant  to 
inquire,  and  might  prove  invidious  to  determine  : 
one  thing,  however,  is  clear,  that  in   all  countries 
the   temporalities   of  the    Church    Establishment 
should  bear  an  analogy  to  the  state  of  society,  oth- 
erwise it  cannot  diffuse  its  influence  through  the 
whole  community.     In  a  country  so  rich  and  lux- 
urious as  England,  the  character  of  its  clergy  must 
unavoidably  sink,  and  their  influence  be  every 
where  impaired,    if  individuals   from   the    upper 
ranks,  and  men  of  leading  talents,  are  to  have  no 
inducements  to  enter  into  that  body  but  such  as  are 
purely  spiritual.     And  this  "  tinge  of  secularity  " 
is  no  reproach  to  the  clergy,  nor  does  it  imply  a 
deficiency  of  spiritual  endowments.     Parents  and 
guardians,  looking  forward  to  sources  of  honora- 
ble maintenance  for   their   children    and    wards, 
often    direct   their   thoughts    early    towards    the 
Church,  being  determined  partly  by  outward  cir- 
cumstances, and  partly  by  indications  of  serious- 
ness, or  intellectual  fitness.     It  is  natural  that  a 


330  APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

boy  or  youth,  witli  siuh  a  prospect  before  liim, 
should  turn  his  attention  to  those  studies,  and  be 
led  into  those  habits  of  reflection,  which  will  in 
some  degree  tend  to  prepare  him  for  the  duties 
he  is  hereafter  to  undertake.  As  he  draws  iic:ar- 
er  to  the  time  when  he  will  be  called  to  these  du- 
ties, he  is  both  led  and  compelled  to  examine  the 
Scriptures.  He  becomes  more  and  more  sensible 
of  their  truth.  Devotion  grows  in  him  ;  and  what 
might  begin  in  temporal  considerations  will  end 
(as  in  a  majority  of  instances  we  trust  it  does)  in 
a  spiritual-mindedness  not  unworthy  of  that  Gos- 
pel, the  lessons  of  which  he  is  to  teach,  and  the 
faith  of  which  he  is  to  inculcate.  Not  inapposite- 
ly  may  be  here  repeated  an  observation,  which, 
from  its  obviousness  and  importance,  must  have 
been  frequently  made,  namely,  that  the  impoverish- 
ing of  the  clergy,  and  bringing  their  incomes  much 
nearer  to  a  level,  would  not  cause  them  to  become 
less  worldly-minded  :  the  emoluments,  howsoever 
reduced,  would  be  as  eagerly  sought  for,  but  by 
men  fi-ora  lower  classes  in  society ;  men  who,  by 
their  manners,  habits,  abilities,  and  the  scanty 
measure  of  their  attainments,  would  unavoidably 
be  less  fitted  for  their  station,  and  less  competent 
to  discharge  its  duties. 

Visionary  notions  have  in  all  ages  been  afloat 
upon  the  subject  of  best  providing  for  the  clergy  ; 
notions  which  have  been  sincerely  entertained  by 
good  men,  with  a  view  to  the  improvement  of  tliat 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       331 

arder,  and  eagerly  caught  at  and  dwelt  upon  l>y 
the  designing,  for  its  degradation  and  disparage- 
ment. Some  are  beguiled  by  what  they  call  the 
voluntary  system,  not  seeing  (what  stares  one  in 
the  face  at  the  very  threshold)  that  they  wlio 
stand  in  most  need  of  relisrious  instruction  are  un- 
conscious  of  the  want,  and  therefore  cannot  rea- 
sonably be  expected  to  make  any  sacrifice  in  order 
to  supply  it.  "Will  the  licentious,  the  sensual,  and 
the  depraved  take  from  the  means  of  their  grati- 
fications and  pursuits,  to  support  a  discipline  that 
cannot  advance  without  uprooting  the  trees  that 
bear  the  fruit  wdiich  they  devour  so  greedily  ? 
"Will  they  pay  the  price  of  that  seed  whose  harvest 
is  to  be  I'eaped  in  an  invisible  world?  A  volun- 
tary system  for  the  religious  exigencies  of  a  peo- 
ple numerous  and  circumstanced  as  Ave  are !  Not 
more  absurd  would  it  be  to  expect  that  a  knot  of 
boys  should  draw  upon  the  pittance  of  their  pocket- 
money  to  build  schools,  or  out  of  the  abundance 
of  their  discretion  be  able  to  select  fit  masters  to 
teach  and  keep  them  in  order  !  Some,  who  clear- 
ly perceive  the  incompetence  and  folly  of  such  a 
scheme  for  the  agricultural  part  of  the  people, 
nevertheless  think  it  feasible  in  large  towns,  where 
the  rich  midit  subscribe  for  the  relijiious  iii*truc- 
Uon  of  the  poor.  Alas !  they  know  little  of  the 
hick  darkness  that  spreads  over  the  streets  and 
alleys  of  our  large  towns.  The  parish  of  Lam- 
beth, a  few  years  since,  contained  not  more  than 


332  APl'KXUIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 

one  cliurcli  and  three  or  four  small  proprietary 
chapels,  while  dissenting  chapels,  of  every  denom- 
ination, were  still  more  scantily  found  there ;  yet 
the  inhabitants  of  the  parish  amounted  at  that 
time  to  upwards  of  fifty  thousand.  Were  the 
parish  church  and  the  chapels  of  the  Establish- 
ment existing  there  an  impediment  to  the  spread 
of  the  Gospel  among  that  mass  of  people  ?  Wlio 
shall  dare  to  say  so  ?  But  if  any  one,  in  the  face 
of  the  fact  which  has  just  been  stated,  and  in  op- 
position to  authentic  reports  to  the  same  effect 
from  various  other  quarters,  should  still  contend, 
that  a  voluntary  system  is  sufficient  for  the  spread 
and  maintenance  of  religion,  we  would  ask.  What 
kind  of  relio'ion  ?  Wherein  would  it  differ,  amongr 
the  many,  from  deplorable  fanaticism  ? 

For  the  preservation  of  the  Church  Establish- 
ment, all  men,  whether  they  belong  to  it  or  not, 
could  they  perceive  their  true  interest,  would  be 
strenuous :  but  how  inadequate  are  its  provisions 
foi'  the  needs  of  the  country !  and  how  much  is  it 
to  be  regretted,  that,  while  its  zealous  friends  yielil 
to  alarms  on  account  of  the  hostility  of  dissent, 
they  should  so  much  overrate  the  danger  to  be 
apprehended  from  that  quarter,  and  almost  over- 
look the  fact  that  hundreds  of  thousands  of  our 
fellow-countrymen,  though  formally  and  nominally 
of  the  Church  of  England,  never  enter  her  jjlaces 
„.  worship,  neither  have  they  communication  with 
li(;r  niinifelers!     This   deplorable   state   of  things 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.       333 

was  partly  produced  by  a  decay  of  zeal  among 
the  rich  and  influential,  and  partly  by  a  want  of 
due  expansive  power  in  the  constitution  of  the 
Establishment  as  regulated  by  law.  Private  ben- 
efactors, in  their  efforts  to  build  and  endow  church- 
es, have  been  frustrated,  or  too  much  impeded,  by 
legal  obstacles :  these,  where  they  are  unreason- 
able or  unfitted  for  the  times,  ought  to  be  removed  j 
and,  keeping  clear  of  intolerance  and  injustice, 
means  should  be  used  to  render  the  presence  and 
powers  of  the  Church  commensurate  with  the 
wants  of  a  shifting  and  still-increasing  jjopula- 
tion. 

This  cannot  be  effected,  unless  the  English  Gov- 
ernment vindicate  the  truth,  that,  as  her  Church 
exists  for  the  benefit  of  all  (though  not  in  equal 
degree),  whether  of  her  communion  or  not,  all 
should  be  made  to  contribute  to  its  support.  If 
this  ground  be  abandoned,  cause  will  be  given  to 
fear  that  a  moral  wound  may  be  inflicted  upon  the 
heart  of  the  English  people,  for  which  a  remedy 
cannot  be  speedily  provided  by  the  utmost  efforts 
which  the  members  of  the  Church  will  themselves 
be  able  to  make. 

But  let  the  friends  of  the  Church  be  of  good 
courage.  Powers  are  at  work,  by  which,  under 
Divine  Providence,  she  may  be  strengthened  and 
the  sphere  of  her  usefulness  extended  ;  not  by  al- 
terations in  her  Liturgy,  accommodated  to  this  or 
'hat  demand  of  finical  taste,  not  by  cutting  off  this 


33i       APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC. 

or  that  from  her  Articles  or  Canons,  to  wliich  the 
scrupulous  or  the  overweening  may  object.  Cov- 
ert schism,  and  open  nonconformity,  would  survive 
after  alterations,  however  promising  in  the  eyes 
of  those  whose  subtilty  had  been  exercised  in 
making  them,  Latitudinarianism  is  the  parhelion 
of  liberty  of  conscience,  and  will  ever  successfully 
lay  claim  to  a  divided  worship.  Among  Presby- 
terians, Socinians,  Baptists,  and  Independents, 
there  will  always  be  found  numbers  who  will  tire 
of  their  several  creeds,  and  some  will  come  over 
to  the  Church.  Conventicles  may  disappear,  con- 
gregations in  each  denomination  may  fall  into  de- 
cay or  be  broken  up,  but  the  conquests  which  the 
National  Church  ought  chiefly  to  aim  at  lie  among 
the  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  the  unhap- 
py outcasts  who  grow  up  with  no  religion  at  all. 
The  wants  of  these  cannot  l)iit  be  feelingly  re- 
membered. Whatever  may  be  the  disposition  of 
the  new  constituencies  under  the  reformed  Parlia- 
ment, and  the  course  which  the  men  of  their  choice 
may  be  inclined  or  compelled  to  follow,  it  may  be 
confidently  hoped  that  individuals,  acting  in  their 
private  capacities,  will  endeavor  to  make  up  lor 
the  deficiencies  of  the  legislature.  Is  it  too  much 
to  expect  that  proprietors  of  large  estates,  where 
the  inhabitants  are  without  religious  instruction, 
or  where  it  is  sparingly  pniti)li('il,  will  deem  it 
Ihcir  duty  to  take  ])art  in  this  good  work  ;  and 
Oial   thriving  maiuifacturers  and  merchants  will. 


APPENDIX,  PKKFACES,  ETC.       335 

in  their  several  neighborhoods,  be  sensible  of  the 
like  obligation,  and  act  npon  it  with  generous  ri- 
valry ? 

Moreover,  the  force  of  public  opinion  is  rapidly 
increasing :  and  some  may  bend  to  it,  who  are  not 
so  happy  as  to  be  swayed  by  a  higher  motive ; 
especially  they  who  derive  large  incomes   fronj 
lay-impropriations,   in   tracts    of   country    where 
ministers  are  few  and  meagrely  provided  for.     A 
claim  stiU  stronger  may  be  acknowledged  by  those 
who,Tound  their  superb  habitations,  or  elsewhere, 
walk  over  vast  estates  which  were  lavished  upon 
their  ancestors  by  royal  favoritism,  or  purchased 
at  insignificant  prices  after  church  si^oliation  ;  such 
proprietors,  though  not  conscience-stricken  (there 
is  no  call  for  that),  may  be  prompted  to  make  a 
i-eturn  for  which  their  tenantry  and  dependents 
will  learn  to  bless  their  names.     An  impulse  has 
been  given  ;  an  accession  of  means  from  these  sev- 
eral sources,  cooperating  with  a  tf^eZZ-considered 
change  in  the  distribution  of  some  parts  of  the 
property  at  present  possessed  by  the  Church,  a 
change  scrupulously  founded  upon  due  respect  to 
law  and  justice,  vnW,  we  trust,  bring  about  so  much 
of  what  her  friends  desire,  that  the  rest  may  be 

calmly  waited  for,  with  thankfulness  for  what  shall 

have  been  obtained. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  unbecoming  in  a  layman, 

to  have  treated  at  length  a  subject  with  which  the 

vlei'g}'  are  more  intimately  conversant.     AJl  may, 


33G  APPJINDIX,    I'UEFACES,    ETC. 

without  impropriety,  speak  of  what  deeply  con- 
cerns all ;  nor  need  an  apology  be  offered  for  go- 
ing over  ground  which  has  been  trod  before  so 
ably  and  so  often :  without  pretending,  however, 
to  anything  of  novelty,  either  in  matter  or  manner, 
something  may  have  been  offered  to  view  which 
V  ill  save  the  writer  fi-om  the  imputation  of  having 
little  to  recommend  his  labor,  but  goodness  of  in- 
tention. 

It  was  with  reference  to  thoughts  and  feelings 
expressed  in  verse,  that  I  entered  upon  the  above 
notices,  and  with  verse  I  will  conclude.  The  pas- 
sage is  extracted  from  my  manuscripts,  written 
above  thirty  years  ago:  it  turns  upon  the  individ- 
ual dignity  which  humbleness  of  social  condition 
does  not  preclude,  but  frequently  promotes.  Tt 
has  no  direct  bearing  upon  clubs  for  the  discussion 
of  public  affairs,  nor  upon  politiail  or  trade-unions ; 
but  if  a  single  workman  —  who,  being  a  memlicr 
of  one  of  those  clubs,  runs  the  risk  of  becoming  an 
Kgitator,  or  who,  being  enrolled  in  a  union,  must 
be  left  without  a  will  of  his  own,  and  therefore  a 
sLave  —  should  read  these  lines,  and  be  touched 
by  them,  I  should  indeed  rejoice  ;  and  little  would 
I  care  for  losing  credit  as  a  poet  with  intemperate 
critics,  who  think  differently  from  me  upon  polit- 
ical philosophy  or  public  measures,  if  the  sober 
minded  admit  that,  in  general  views,  my  affections 
have  been  moved,  and  my  imagination  exercised, 
■an<ler  and  for  the  guidance  of  rca^jon. 


APPENDIX,    PREFACES,    ETC. 


337 


••  Here  might  I  pause,  and  bend  in  reverence 
To  Nature,  and  tlie  power  of  human  minds; 
To  men  as  they  are  men  withiu  themselves. 
How  oft  high  service  is  performed  witlun, 
When  all  the  external  man  is  rade  in  sho-vv; 
Not  Uke  a  temple  rich  with  pomp  and  gold, 
But  a  mere  mountain  chapel  that  protects 
Its  simple  worsliippei-s  from  sun  and  shower! 
Of  these,  said  I,  shall  be  my  song;  of  these, 
If  future  years  mature  me  for  the  task, 
Will  I  record  the  praises,  making  verse 
Deal  boldly  with  substantial  things,  —  m  truth 
And  sanctity  of  passion  speak  of  these. 
That  justice  may  be  done,  obeisance  paid 
Where  it  is  due.     Thus  haply  shall  I  teach, 
Inspire,  through  unadulterated  ears 
Pour  rapture,  tenderness,  and  hope ;  my  theme 
No  other  than  the  very  heart  of  man, 
As  found  among  the  best  of  those  who  live, 
Not  unexalted  by  religious  faith. 
Nor  uninformed  by  books,  good  books,  though  few, 
In  Nature's  presence:  thence  may  I  select 
Sorrow  that  is  not  son-ow,  but  delight, 
And  miserable  love  that  is  not  pain 
To  hear  of,  for  the  glory  that  redounds 
Therefrom  to  human  kind,  and  what  we  are. 
Be  mine  to  follow  with  no  timid  step 
Where  knowledge  leads  me;  it  shall  be  my  pride 
That  I  have  dared  to  tread  this  holy  ground. 
Speaking  no  di-eam,  but  things  oracular, 
Matter  not  lightly  to  be  heard  by  those 
Who  to  the  letter  of  the  outward  promise 
Do  read  the  in^^sible  soul;  by  men  adroit 
In  speech,  and  for  communion  with  the  world 
Accomplished,  minds  whose  faculties  are  then 
Most  active  when  they  are  most  eloquent, 
And  elevated  most  when  most  admired. 
Men  may  be  found  of  other  mould  than  these; 
Who  are  their  own  upholders,  to  themselves 
•OI-.  V.  22 


338  Ain'KNDlX,    I'UKl'ACKS,    ETC. 

Encouragement  and  energj'  and  will; 

Expressing  liveliest  thoughts  in  lively  words 

As  native  passion  dictates.     Others,  too, 

There  are,  among  the  walks  of  homely  life, 

Still  higlier,  men  for  contemplation  framed; 

Shy,  and  unjn'actised  in  the  strife  of  phrase; 

Meek  men,  whose  very  souls  perhaps  would  suik 

Beneath  them,  summoned  to  such  intercourse. 

Theirs  is  the  language  of  the  heavens,  the  power, 

The  thought,  the  image,  and  the  silent  joy: 

Words  are  but  under-agents  in  their  soulf?; 

When  they  are  grasping  with  their  greatest  streugth, 

They  do  not  breathe  among  them ;  this  I  speak 

In  gratitude  to  God,  who  feeds  our  hearts 

For  his  own  service,  knoweth,  loveth  us, 

When  we  are  unregarded  by  the  world." 


INDEX    TO    THE    POEMS. 


[In  case  of  need,  seek  under  the  word  Lines,  Sonnet,  or  Stanzafl.] 


Abuse   of  Monastic    Power, 

iv.  110 
A  Character,  iv.  234 
A  Complaint,  i.  280 
Acquittal  of  tlie  Bisliops,  iv. 

133 
Address    from  tlie    Spirit  of 

Cockermoutli  Castle,  iv.  187 

to  a  Cliild,  i.  191 

to    Kilcliuru    Castle, 

iii.  20 
to  my  Infant  Daugli- 

ter,  ii.  82 

■  to  the  Scholars  of  the 


Village  School  of 

147 

Admonition,  ii.  321 
A  Fact,  and  an  Imagination, 

iv.  274 
A  Farewell,  i.  266 
Afflictions  of  England,  iv.  128 
A  Flower-Garden,  ii.  20 
After  leaving  Italv,  iii.  224 

~,  iii.  224 

After-thought     (Riv.    Dud.), 

iii.  270 
(Tour  Contin.), 

iii.  148 
A    Gravestone.  —  Worcester 

Cathedral,  ii.  378 
A  Jewish  Family,  ii.  260 
Airey-Force  Valley,  ii.  121 
Aix-la-Chapelle,  iii.  140 
Alfred,  iv.  89 
41lred's  Descendants,  iv.  90 


Alice  Fell,  i.  196 
American  Tradition,  iii.  258 
Among  the  Euins  of  a  Convent 

in  the  Apennines,  iii.  222 
A  Morning  Exercise,  ii.  17 
Anecdote  for  Fathers,  i.  209 
An  Evening  Walk,  i.  3 
A  Night-Piece,  ii.  120 
A  Night  Thought,  iv.  259 
Animal  Tranquillity  and  De- 
cay, V.  134 
An  Interdict,  iv.  96 
Anticipation,  Oct.  1803,  iii.  81 
A  Parsonage  in  Oxfordsliire, 

ii.  370 
A  Place  of  Burial  in  the  South 

of  Scotland,  iii.  276 
A  Plea  for  Authors,  ii.  390 
A  Poet's  Epitaph,  iv.  243 
Apology  (Ecc.  Son),  iv.  84 

^(Ecc.  Son),  iv.  114 

(Pun.  of  Death),  iv. 


340 


(Yar.  Rev.),  iii.  296 
A  Prophecy,  Feb.  1807,  iii.  87 
Archbishop  Chichely  to  Hen  17 

v.,  iv.  107 
Artegal  and  Elidure,  i.  255 
Aspects    of    Christianity    in 

America,  iv.  136 

,  iv.  137 

,  iv.  137 

At  Albano,  iii.  208 

At  Applethwaite,  ii.  322 

At  Bologna,  iv.  328 


340 


INDEX    10    TUE    POEMS. 


At  Bologna,  iv.  329 

,  iv.  330 

At  Dover,  iii.  184 
At  Florence,  iii.  220 

,  iii.  221 

,  iii.  222 

At  Funiess  Abbey,  ii.  397 

,  ii.  397 

A  Tradition  of  Olier  Hill,  ii. 

380 
At  Rome,  iii.  204 

r,  iii.  204 

,  iii.  205 

,  iii.  206 

At  the  Convent  of  Camaldoli, 

iii.  215 

,  iii.  216 

,  iii.  217 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns,  iii.  2 
At  Vallombrosa,  iii.  218 
A  Wren's  Nest,  ii.  70 

Baptism,  iv.  141 
Before  the  Picture  of  the  Bap- 
tist, iii.  220 
Beggai-s,  ii.  140 

,  Sequel,  ii.  142 

Botawell  Castle,  iii.  290 
Bruges,  iii.  136 
,  iii.  137 

Calais,  Aug.  1802,  iii.  65 

,  15  Aug.  1802,  iii.  67 

Canute,  iv.  92 

Captivity.  —  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,'ii.  359 

Casual  Incitement,  iv,  80 

Catecliizing,  iv.  142 

Catlietirals,  etc.,  iv.  155 

Cave  of  Staffa,  iv.  209 

,  iv.  210 

,  iv.  211 

Cenotaph,  v.  145 

Characteristics  of  a  Child,  i. 
190 

Character  of  the  Happy  War- 
rior, iv.  268 

Charles  the  Second,  iv.  130 

Church  to  he  erected,  iv.  153 

,  iv.  154 

jistrrtlan  Moujistery,  iv.  100 


Clerical  Intem-ity,  iv.  132 
Conclusion  (Lcc.  Son.),  iv.  158 

(Misc.  Son.),  ii.  366 

(I'un.   of    Death), 


iv.  3^9 


(Riv.    Dud.),    iii. 


269 

Confirmation,  iv.  143 
-,  iv.  143 


Congratulation,  iv.  152 
Conjectures,  iv.  73 
Conversion,  iv.  83 
Corruptions    of    the    Higher 

Clergy,  iv.  109 
Countess'  Pillar,  iii.  294 
Cranmer,  iv.  120 
Crusaders,  iv.  103 
Crusades,  iv.  94 

Danish  Conquests,  iv.  91 
Decay  of  Piety,  ii.  334 
Dedication   (Con.    Tour),   iii. 

135 

(Misc.Son.),  ii.  320 

( W.Doe  ofR.),  iv.l 

Departure.  —  Vale    of    Gras- 

mere,  iii.  1 
Descriptive  Sketches,  i.  20 
Desultory  Stanza.'',  iii.  184 
Devotional  Incitements,  ii.  250 
Dion,  ii.  204 
Dirge,  v.  148 
Dissensions,  iv  78 
Dissolution  of  the  Monasteries, 

iv.  Ill 

,  iv  112 

,  iv.  113 

Distraction*,  iv.  124 
Druidical  E.xcommuiiication, 

iv.  74 

Kaglks,  iii.  250 
F,cho,upon  theGemmi,  iii.  173 
Edward  VI.,  iv.  118 
signing   the  War- 


rant, iv.  118 
Ed'usion.  —  Banks  of  the  Bran, 

iii.  55 
.    Tower  of    Tell 

iii.  152 
Ejaculation,  iv.  158 


INDEX   TO    THE    POEMS. 


341 


Eleginc  Musings.  —  Coleorton 

Hall,  V.  166 

Stanzas,  1824,  v.  163 

,  F.    W.    God- 

dard,  ili.  177 
,  Peele  Castle, 

V.  150 

Verses.    John  Words- 


worth, 1805,  V.  156 
Elizabeth,  iv.  122 
Elian  Ii'win,  iii.  11 
Emigrant  French  Clergy,  iv. 

lol 
Eminent  Eeformere,  iv.  123 


,  iv.  124 

Engelberg,  iii.  149 

English  Reformers  in  Exile, 
iv.  122 

Epistle  to  Su-  George  Beau- 
mont, Bart.,  V.  1 

Epitaph.  Langdate  Chapel- 
yard,  V.  146 

Epitaphs  from  Chiabrera,  v. 
136 

Expostulation  and  Eeply,  iv. 
230 

Extempore  Effusion  upon  the 
Death  of  James  Hogg,  v.  173 

Extract  from  the  Conclusion 
of  a  Poem,  i.  1 

Fancy  and  Tradition,  iii.  293 
Farewell  Lines,  i.  372 
Feelings  of  a  French  Royalist, 
iii.  117 

a  Noble  Biscayan, 


General  View.  —  Reforma- 
tion, iv.  121 

Glad  Tidings,  iv.  81 

Glen  Almain,  iii.  16 

Gold  and  Silver  Fishes  in  a 
Vase,  V.  13 

Goodv  Blake  and  Harrv  Gill, 
V.  41 

Gordale,  ii.  364 

Grace  Darling,  v.  52 

Greenock,  iv.  215 

Guilt  and  Son'ow,  i.  51 

Gunpowder  Plot,  iv.  125 

Gypsies,  ii.  144 

Hart-Leap  Well,  ii.  171 

Hart's-Horn  Tree,  iii.  293 

Her  Eves  are  Wild,  i.  377 

Highland  Hut,  iii.  284 

Hint  from  the  Jlountj'.ns,  ii.  52 

Hints  for  the  Fancv,  iii-  256 

Hofter,  iii.  90 

Humanity,  iv.  289 

Hvmn    for    the    Boatmen.  — 


Heidelberg,  iii.  142 


and 


iii.  100 


■theTyrolese,  iii.  92 


Fidelitv,  iv.  263 
Filial  Piety,  ii.  381 
Fish-Vf'omen,  iii.  135 
Floating  Island  (D.  W.),  v.  27 
Flowers,  iii.  252  I 

Cave  of  Staffa,  iv  211    ■ 

Foresight,  i.  189 

Forms  of  Praver  at  Sea,  iv. 

147 
Fort  Fuentes,  iii.  155 

French  Revolution,  ii.  193  

From  the  Alban  Hills,  iii.  209     

Fimeral  Service,  iv.  148  i      79 


Illustrated      Books 

Newspapers,  iv.  257 
Illustration,  iv.  126 
Imaginative  Regrets,  iv.  115 
Incident  at  Bruges,  iii.  137 
characteristic    of    a 

Favorite  Dog,  iv.  260 
Indignation  of  a  High-minded 

Spaniard,  iii.  102 
Lifluence  abused,  ivr.  90 
of  Natural  Objects, 

i.  219 
In  Lombardy,  iii.  22S 
Inscription.     At  the   Request 

of  Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  v.  72 
.    Black  Comb,  v- 


V.  175 


Crosthwaite  Ch., 

For   a   Seat    in 
the  Groves   of  Coleorton,  7. 
73 
.    Hermitage,  v  84 

Hermit's  Cull,  v 


342 


INDEX    TO    THE    POEMS. 


Inscription.    In  a  Garden  of 

Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  v.  71 
.    In  the   Grounds 

of  Coleorton,  v.  70 
.    Island  at   Gras- 

niere,  v.  74 
.    Island  at  Rydal, 

V.  76 
On  the  Banks  of 

a  Rocky  Stream,  v.  86 

Spring     of    the 


Hennitage,  v.  83 

— .    upon  a  Rock,  v. 


81 

Inside  of  King's  College  Chap- 
el, iv.  156 

,  iv.  156 

,  iv.  157 

lntroduction(Ecc.  Son.),  iv.  72 
Invocation  to  the  Earth,  v.  161 
lona,  iv.  212 

.  iv.  213 

Isle  of  Man,  iv.  200 
,  iv.  200 

Journey  renewed,  iii.  266 

L.AMENT  of  '^lavy  Queen   of 
Scots,  i.  285 

Laodamia,  ii.  196. 

Latimer  and  Ridley,  iv.  120 

Latitudinarianism,  iv.  130 

Laud,  iv.  127 

Liberty.  —  Gold    and    Silver 
Fishes,  v.  15 

Line?.    Above  Tintern  Abbev, 
ii.  186 

.    Album  of  the  Count- 
ess of  Lonsdale,  v.  48 

Blank   Leaf  of  "  The 


Excursion,"  v.  163 

By  tlie  Sea-shore,  iv. 


174 


Rv  the  Sea-side,  iv.  162 

.    r.y  the  Side  of  Kydal 

Mere,  iv.  165 

.    Charles  Lamb,  v.  168 

.    Coast  of  Cumberland, 


iv   161 


Expected       Invasion, 


1803,  iii.  80 


Lines.    In  a  Boat  at  Evening. 

i.  18 
.    In   Early   Spring,   iv 

233 
.    Macpherson's  Ossian, 

iv.  206 

.    Mr.  Fox,  V.  160 

— — .    Portrait,  iv.  313 

.    ,  iv.  318 

Su2£rested  bv  a  Pic- 


ture of  tlie  Bird  of  I'aradise, 
ii.  259 

Upon  seeing  a  colored 


Drawing  of  the  Bird  of  Par- 
adise, iv.  320 

Yew-tree  Seat,  i.  49 


London,  1802,  iii.  73 
Love-lies-bleeding,  ii.  73 

,  Companion 

to,  ii.  74 
Loving  and  Liking,  i.  369 
Louisa,  i.  272 
Lowther,  iv.  221 
Lucy  Gray,  i.  199 

JIalham  Cove,  ii.  364 
JLarv  Queen  of  Scots,  iv.  189 
JIaternal  Grief,  i.  802 
JIatthew,  iv.  247 
Memorial.  —  Lake    of  Thun, 

iii.  146 
Memorv,  iv.  287 
Michael,  i.  342 
Missions  and  Travels,  iv.  88 
Monastery  of  Old  Bangor,  iv. 

80 
Monastic  Voluptuousness,  iv. 

Ill 
Monks    and    Schoolmen,    iv. 

101 
Monument   of  Mrs.   Howard, 

iv.  217 
Musings  near  Aquapendente, 

iii   190 
Mutability,  iv.  150 

Neau  Rome.    In  Sight  of  St 
Peter's,  iii.  207 

Calais,  on  the  Road  lead- 


ing to  Ardros,  Aug.  7,  180i 
iii.  66 


INDEX    TO    THE    POEMS. 


313 


Near  the  Lake  of  Tlirasy- 
mene,  iii.  210 

iii.  210 

New  Churches,  iv.  152 

Churchyard,  iv.  154 

Nunnery,  iv.  218 

Nun's  Well,  Brigham,  iv.  188 

Nutting,  ii.  123 

Obligations  of  Civil  to  Re- 
ligious Liberty,  iv.  134 

Ode,  iii.  82 

composed    in    January, 

1816,  iii.  125 

composed  on  an  Evening 

of  Extraordinary  Splendor, 
iv.  170 

on  May  Morn- 
ing, iv.  306 

.  Intimations  of  Immor- 
tality, y.  177 

,   1815,  iii.  120 

.   1814,  iii.  Ill 

to  Duty,  iv.  266 

to  Lycoris,  iv.  279 

,  iv.  281 


Old  Abbeys,  iv.  150 

On  a  Portrait  of  the  Duke  of 

Wellington,  ii.  385 
Open  Prospect,  iii.  256 
Other  Benefits,  iv.  102 
-,  iv.  102 


Influences,  iv.  85 


Our  Lady  of  the  Snow,  iii.  150    — 

Oxford,  May  SO,  1820,  ii.  307      Ruth,  ii.  145 

^ ,  ii.368    i 


Plea  for  the  Historian,  iii.  206 
Poor  Robin  v.  21 
Power  of  Music,  ii.  133 
Prelude.      Poems    chiefly    oi 

Early  and  Late  Years,  v.  46 
Presentiments,  ii.  241 
Primitive  Saxon  Clergy,  iv.  84 
Processions.     Chamouny,   iii. 

174 

Recollection   of   the  Por 
trait  of  Henry  VIII.,  ii,  368 

Recovery,  iv.  76 

Reflections,  iv.  116 

Regrets,  iv.  149 

Remembrance  of  ColUns,  i.  19 

Repentance,  i.  296 

Reproof,  iv.  87 

Resolution  and  Independence, 
ii.  155 

Rest  and  be  thankful.  —  Glen 
croe,  iii.  283 

Retirement,  ii.  348 

Return,  iii.  259 

Revival  of  Popery,  iv.  119 

Richard  I.,  iv.  95 

Rob  Roy's  Grave,  iii.  23 

Roman  Antiquities.  —  Bishop- 
stone,  ii.  379 

.    Old  Pen- 
rith, iii.  295 

Rural  Arcliitecture,  i.  211 

Ceremony,  iv.  148 

Illusions,  ii.  75 


Papal  Abuses,  iv.  97 

Dominion,  iv.  98 

Pastoral  Character,  iv.  139 

Patriotic  Sjnnpatliies,  iv.  129 

Paulinus,  iv.  82 

Persecution,  iv.  76 

of  the  Covenant- 
ers, iv.  132 

Personal  Talk,  iv.  254 

Persuasion,  iv.  82 

Peter  Dell,  ii.  272 

Picture  of  Daniel  in  the  Lion's 
Den,  iii.  291 

Places  of  Worship,  iv.  139 


Sacheverel,  iv.  135 

Sacrament,  iv.  144 

Saints,  iv.  113 

Saxon  Conquest,  iv.  79 

j\Ionasteries,  iv.  88 

Scene  in  Venice,  iv.  97 

on  the  Lake  of  Brientz, 

iii.  149 
Seathwaite  Chapel,  iii.  260 

I  Seclusion,  iv.  86 

i -■ ,  iv.  86 

Sheep-washing,  iii.  263 
Siege  i»f  Vienna  raised  by  JoLji 
Sobieski,  iii.  118 

I  Simon  Lee,  iv.  237 


344 


INDEX    TO    THE  POEMS. 


Skv    Prospect. — France,  iii. 

Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham 

Castle,  ii.  179 
for  the  Spinning-wheel, 

ii.  51 

■  for  the  Wandering  Jew, 


ii.  63 
Sonnet  after  visiting  Waterloo, 

iii.  139 

at  Bala-Sala,  iv.  202 

at  Sea  off  the  Isle  of 

Man,  iv.  197 

■  between    Namur    and 


Liege,  iii.  140 

bv  a  Retired  Mariner, 

iv.  201 

•  by  the  Sea-shore,  Isle 


of  Jhiii,  iv.  199 

•  composed  after  reading 


a  Newspaper,  iv.  323 

anions     the 


Ruins  of  a  Castle  in  North 
Wales,  ii.  371 
at Cas- 


tle, iii.  28 


at     Rydal, 

on  May  Jlorning,  1838,  iii. 
225 
bv  the  Sea- 
side,  near   Calais,   August, 
1802,  iii.  64 

-bv  the  Side  of 


Grasmere  Luke,'  1807,  iii.  88 
duriui:       a 


Storm,  ii.  352 
Chapel,  iii.  278 


Sonnet  composed  upon  West 
minster  Bridge,  ii.  305 

,  Convention  of  Cintra, 

iii.  89 

,  iii.  9b 

,  1811,  iii.  105 

,  1811,  iii.  106 

,  1801,  iii.  t)6 

,  1810,  iii.  99 

,  1810,  iii.  103 

,  1830,  ii.  380 

-,  from  Michael  Angelo, 


in      Rosliu 

in  the   Glen 
of  Loch  Ktive,  iii.  280 

in  the  Valley 


near  Dover,  iii.  70 

on    a    Mav 


Morning,  1838,  ii.  385 

on      Easter 


Sunday,  ii.  333 

on  the  Banks 

of  a  Rocky  Stream,  ii.  362 
■  on  the  Kve  of 


the    Marriage  of  a  Friend, 


ii.  335 


,  ii.  336 

,  ii.  336 

-,  Hambleton     Hills,    ii. 

-,  Harbor  of  Boulogne, 
iii.  182 

in  a  Carriage.-'Rhine, 


349 


iii.  142 

in  Allusion  to  various 


recent  Histories,  iv.  325 

,  iv.  326 

,  iv.  327 

in    Siffht  of    Cocker 

mouth,  iv.  186 

in    the    Cathedral    at 


Cologne,  iii.  141 

in  the  Channel  on  the 


Coast  of    Cumberland,   iv. 
196 

in  the  Frith  of  Clvde, 


iv.  204 

,  iv.  204 

in    the   Pass  of  Killi- 

cranky,  iii.  32 

in  the  Sound  of  Mull, 


iii.  281 

in  the  Woods  of  Rydal, 


ii.  373 

,  June,  1820,  ii.  370 

Kendal  and   Winder- 


mere Railwav,  ii.  395 

,  Nov.  1,'  ii.  351 

,  Nov.  1806,  iii.  81 

,  Nov.  1813,  iii.  110 

,  Nov.  1836,  ii.  338 

-,  occasioned  by  the  Bnt- 


ii.  334 


tie  of  Wntprloo,  iii.  117 
'■ .iii.  116 


INDEX    TO    THE    POEMS. 


!4') 


Sonnet,  Oct.  1803,  iii.  75 

,  iii.  76 

iii.  78 


on  a  Celebrated  Event 

in  Ancient  History,  iii.  85 

,  iii.  86 

—    on    approacliing    the 

Staub-bach,  iii.  144 

■  on    entering    Doujrlas 


Bay,  iv.  198 

^  on  heariiisc  the  "  Ranz 

des  Vaclies,"  iii.  154 

•  on  revisiting   DunoUy 


Castle,  iv.  205 

on  the   Death  of  his 


Sonnet  writtea  in  vt  ry  early 

Youth,  i.  2 
Spanlsli  Guerillas,  iii.  104 
Sponsore,  iv.  141 
Stanzas.  Catholic  Cantons,  iii. 

147 

.    Cora  Linn,  iii.  52 

in  Germany,  iv.  241 

in  the  Simplon  Pass, 

iii.  172 

.   Needle-case,  ii.  54 

On    tae    Power    of 


Majesty,  George  III.,  ii.  369 
■  on  the  Departure  of  Sir 


Walter  Scott,  iii.  276 

on     the     Detraction 


which  followed,  &c.,  ii.  331 
-  on  the  Extinction  of  the 


Venetian  Republic,  iii.  67 
■  on  the   Final  Submis- 


sion of  the  Tyrolese,  iii.  94 
-on  the  Si'^ht  of  a  Manse 


in   the  South  of  Scotland, 

iii.  277 

,  Sept.  1,  1802,  iii.  69 

,  Sept.  1815,  ii.  351 

Sept.    1802.  —  Near 


Dover,  iii.  71 

•  suggested  at  Tj-ndrum, 


iii.  282 

■  suggested  by  a  View 


from  an  Eminence,  iii.  292 
■  sufrsrested  bv  the  Mon- 


ument of  Mrs.  Howard,  iv. 
218 

•  suasested  bv  the  View 


of  Lancaster  Castle,  iv.  332 
■  suggested  bv  Westall's 


Views,  ii';  363 

,  Valley  of  Dover,  iii.183 

upon  a  Blank  Leaf  in 


the  Complete  Angler,  ii.  330 
upon  the  late  General 


S"ast,  iv.  324 

upon   the   Sight  of  a 


B&autiful  Picture,  ii.  325 
written     in     London 


Sound,  ii.  262 

.    Sept.  1819,  iv.  283 

.   ,  iv.  284 

.    St.  Bees,  iv.  190 

written  in  ilarch,  ii. 


Sept.  1802,  iii.  72 


138 
written  in  my  Pocket 

Copy  of  Thomson's  Castle 

of  Indolence,  i.  269 
Star- Gazers,  ii.  135 
St.  Catherine  of  Ledbury,  ii. 

360 
Steamboats,     Viaducts,    and 

Railways,  iv.  219 
Stepping  Westward,  iii.  18 
Stray  Pleasures,  ii.  64 
Struggle  of  the  IJritons,  iv.  78 

Temptations    from    Roman 

Refinements,  iv.  77 
Thanksgiving  after  Childbirth, 

iv.  145 
The    Affliction    of    Margaret 

,  i.  298 

The  Armenian  Lady's  Love, 

i.  361 
The  Avon,  iii.  291 
The  Black  Stones  of  lona,  i:: 

214 
The  Blind  Highland  Boy,iii.87 
The  Borderers,  i.  80 
The  Brothers,  i.  238 
The  Brownie,  iii.  288 
The  Brownie's  Cell,  iii.  48 
The  Childless  Father,  i.  307 
The  Cluirch  of  San  Silvador, 

iii.  157 
The  Column  lying  in  the  Sim 

plon  Pass,  iii.  171 


^46 


INDEX    TO    THE  POEMS. 


The  Corammation  Service,  iv. 

146 
The  Complaint  of  a  Forsaken 

Indian  Woman,  i.  288 
The  Contrast,  ii.  58 
The  Cottager  to  her  Inftxnt,  i. 

801 
The  Council  of  Clei-mont,  iv.94 
The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightin- 
gale, V.  97 
The  Cuckoo  at  Laverna,  iii. 

211 
The  Cuckoo-Clock,  ii.  253 
The  Danish  Bov,  ii.  60 
The  Dunolly  Eii.de,  iv.  206 
The    Earl    of    13readalbane's 

Ruined  Mansion,  iii.  282 
The  Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  1820, 

iii.  164 
The  Egyptian  Maid,  iii.  229 
The  Emigrant  Mother,  i.  308 
The  Excursion,  vi.  1 
The  Faiiry  Chasm,  iii  255 
The  Fall  of  the  Aar,  iii.  145 
The  Farmer  of  Tilsbury  Yale, 

V.  126 
The  Force  of  Prayer,  iv.  271 
The  Forsaken,  i.  277 
The  Fountain,  iv.  251 
The  French  and  the  Spanish 

Guerillas,  iii.  104 
The  French  Army  in  Russia, 

iii.  106 

,iii.  108 

The  Germans  on  the  Heights 

of  Hockhcim,  iii.  109 
The  Gleaner,  v.  22 
The  Green  Linnet,  ii.  38 
The  Haunted  Tree,  ii.  224 
The  Highland  Broach,  iii.  285 
The  Horn  of  Egi-emont  Castle, 

V.  36 
The  Idiot  Roy,  i.  324 
The  Idle  Shepherd-Bovs,  i.  205 
The  Ii.faiit  M.  M.,  ii.  376 
The  Italian  Itinerant,  iii.  159 
I'Le  King  of  Sweden,  iii.  68 
The      Kitten      and      Falling 

Leai  IS,  ii.  77 
The       laborer's       Noonday 

HjTim.  iv.  305 


The  Last  of  the  Flock,  i.  291 
The  Last  Supper,  iii.  163 
The  Liturgy,  iv.  140 
The  Longest  Day,  i.  221 
The  Marriage  Ceremony,  i^ 

144 
The    Matron    of   Jedborough 

and  her  Husband,  iii.  33 
The   Monument  called   Long 

Meg   and    her    Daughters, 

iv.  220 
The  Mother's  Return,  i.  193 
The  Norman  Boy,  i.  225 
Tiie  Norman  Conquest,  iv.  92 
The  Oak  and  the  Broom,  ii.  25 
The  Oak  of  Guernica,  iii.  101 
The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar, 

V.  119 
The  Pass  of  Kirkstone,  ii.  209 
The  Pet  Lamb,  i.  213 
The  Pilgrim's  Dream,  ii.  66 
The  Pillar  of  Trajan,  iii.  226 
The  Pine  of  Monte  Mario  at 

Rome,  iii.  203 
The  Plain  of  Donnerdale,  ilL 

261 
The  Poet  anfl  the  Caged  Tur 

tledove,  ii.  69 
The  Poet's  Dream,  i.  227 
The  Point  at  Issue,  iv.  117 
The  Prelude,  vii.  1 
The  Primrose  of  the  Rock,  ii. 

239 
The  Prioress'  Tale,  v.  87 
The  Redbreast,  i.  373 

chasing    the 


Bntterflv,  ii.  49 
The  Restiiig-Place,  iii.  204 
The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,  ii. 

132 
There  was  a  Boy,  ii.  117 
The  River  Eden,  iv.  216 
The  Russian  Fugitive,  v.  58 
The  Sailor's  Mother,  i.  3(>5 
The  Seven  Sisters,  ii.  46 
The  Simplon  Pass,  ii.  125 
The  Small  Celandine,  v.  181 
The  Solitary  Reaper,  iii.  Ill 
Tlie  Somnamlnilist,  iv.  2'J2 
The   Source  of  the    L)aiiube 

iii.  144 


INDEX    TO    THE    POEMS. 


347 


The  Sparrow's  Nest,  i.  188 
The  Stepping-Stones,  iii.  254 

. ,  iii.  254 

The  Tables  turned,  iv.  232 

The  Thorn,  ii-  162 

The  Three  Cottage  Girls,  iii. 

168 
The  Town  of  Schwytz.,  iii.  154 
The  Triad,  ii.  225 
The  Trosachs,  iii.  278  , 

The  Two  April  Mornings,  iv. 

248 
The  Two  Thieves,  v.  132 
The  Vaudois,  iv.  105 
The  Virgin,  iv.  114 
The  Wagoner,  ii.  85 
The  Warning.  —  Sequel  to  the 

First-born,  iv.  298 
The  Waterfall  and  the  Eglan- 
tine, ii.  23 
The  Westmoreland  Girl,  i.  233 
The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone, 

iv.  1 
The  Widow  on   Windermere 

Side,  i.  359 
The  Wild  Duck's  Nest,  ii.  329 
The  Wishing-Gate,  ii.  233 
The  Wishing-Gate  destroyed, 

ii.  236 
Thought  of  a   Briton  on  the 
Subjugation  of  Switzerland, 
iii.  71 
Thoughts  on  the  Seasons,  iv. 

294° 
Thoughts.— Banks  of  the  Nith, 
iii.  6 

To ,  i.  276 

To ,  i.  281 

To ,  i.  284 

To ,  ii.  377 

To  a  Butterflv,  i.  187 

. '-,  i.  265 

To  a  Child.  —  Written  in  her 

Album,  V.  48 
To  a  Friend  on  the  Banks  of 

the  Derwent,  iv.  188 
1  ->  a  Highland  Girl,  iii.  13 
To  a  Lady.  —  Madeira  Flow- 
ers, ii  56 
To  an  Octosjenarian,  v.  26 
To  a  Paiutel-,  ii.  387 


To  a  Painter,  ii.  387 
To  a  Redbreast  (S.  H.),  v.  24 
To  a  Sexton,  ii.  30 
To  a  Skylark,  ii.  39 
ii.  195 


To  a  Snowdrop,  ii.  353 

To  a  Young  Lady  who  had 

been,  &c.,  &c.,  ii.  220 
To  B.  R.  Haydon,  ii.  344 

Picture  of 


Napoleon  Buonaparte,  ii.  383 

To  Cordelia  M ,  iv.  228 

To  Enterprise,  ii.  212 

To  H.  C,  i.  217 

To  H.  G.  Robinson,  iii.  189 

To ,  in  her  Seventieth 

Year,  ii.  377 
To  Joanna,  ii.  3 
To  Lady  Beaumont,  ii.  354 
To  Lucca  Giordano,  iv  180 
To  Lvcoris,  v.  69 
To  J\iav,  iv.  309 
To  M.  H.,  ii.  10 
To  my  Sister,  iv.  235 
To  — .  on  her  First  Ascent 

of  Helvellvn.  ii.  218 
To ,  on  the  Birth  of  her 

First-born  Child,  iv.  295 

To  Rotha  Q ,  ii.  378 

To  S.  H.,  ii.  332 
To  Sleep,  ii.  327 
ii.  328 


To  the  Author's  Portrait, ii.382 
To  the  Clouds,  ii.  255 
To  the  Cuckoo,  ii.  118 
.  ii.  375 


To  the  Daisv,  ii.  32 

—,  ii.  36 

,  iv.  246 

,  v.  153 


To  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  it  221 
To  the  Ladv  E.   B.  and  the 

Hon.  Miss 'P.,  ii.  372 
To  the  Lady  Fleming.— Foun 

dation  of'Rydal  Cimpel,v.  30 
on  tlie  same  Occasion, 


V.  35 
To  the  Ladv  Mary  Lowther 

ii.  353 
To  the  Memory  of  Raisley  CaJ 

vert,  ii.  342 


548 


INDEX    TO    "THE  POEMS. 


To  the  Men  of  Kent,  iii.  78 
To  the  Moon,  iv.  175 

,  Rydal,  iv.  178 

'l"o  the  Pennsj'lvanians,  iv.  328 
To  the    Phmet   Venus,   Jan. 

1838,  ii.  392 
,  Loch 

Lomond,  iii.  289 
To  the  Poet,  John  Dyer,  ii.  330 
To  the  Rev.  Chr.  Wordsworth, 

D.  D.,  ii.  392 
To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wordsworth, 

iii.  246 
To  the  River  Derwent,  iv.  186 
To  the  River  Greta,  iv.  185 
To  the  Small  Celandine,  ii.  41 

,  ii.  43 

To  the  Sons  of  Burns,  iii.  9 
To  the   Spade  of  a  Friend, 

iv.  257 
To  the  Torrent  at  the  Devil's 

Bridge,  ii.  372 
To  Thomas  Clarkson,  iii.  86 
To    Toussaiut    L'Ouverture, 

iii.  69 
Tradition,  iii.  262 
Translation  of  the  Bible,  iv.ll6 
Transubstantiation,  iv.  105 
Irepidation    of   the    Druids, 

iv.  74 


Tributary  Stream,  iii.  260 
Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  a 

Favorite  Dnj;,  iv.  262 
Troilus  and  Cresida,  v.  112 
Troiibles  of  Charles  the  First, 

iv.  126 
Tynwald  Hill,  iv.  202 

Uncertainty,  iv.  75 

• 

Valedictory  Sonnet,  ii.  391 

Vaudracour  and  Julia,  i.  312 

Vernal  Ode,  ii.  245 

View  from  the  Top  of  Black 

Comb,  ii.  222 
Visitation  of  the  Sick,  iv.  146 

W,\I-DKXSES,  iv.  107 
Walton's  Book  of  Lives,  iv.l3] 
Wars  of  York  and  Lancaster 

iv.  108 
Water-Fowl,  ii.  221 
We  are  Seven,  i.  202 
WiclitVe,  iv.  109 
William  the  Third,  iv.  134 

Yarrow  Revisited,  iii.  271 

Visited,  iii.  60 

Unvisited,  iii.  aft 

Ycv-Trees,  ii.  121 


INDEX   TO    THE    FIRST   LINES. 


A  BARKING  sound  tie  shepherd  hears,  iv.  263 

A  Book  came  forth  of  late,  called  Peter  Bell,  ii.  331 

A  bright-haired  company  of  youthful  slaves,  iv.  80 

Abruptly  paused  the  strife;  —the  field  throughout,  iii.  109 

A  dark  plume  fetch  me  from  yon  blasted  yew,  iii.  259 

Adieu,  Kvdalian  Laurels!  that  have  gi-own,  iv.  183 

Advance,"  come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean  gi-ound,  iii.  91 

Aerial  Rock  — whose  solitary  brow,  ii.  327 

A  famous  man  is  Robin  Hood,  iii.  23 

Affections  lose  their  object;  Time  brings  forth,  v.  26 

A  fiock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by,  ii.  328 

A  genial  hearth,  a  hospitable  board,  iv  139 

Age!  twine  thy  brows  with  fresh  spring  flowers,  iii.  33 

Ah  !  think  liow  one  compelled  for  life  to  abide,  iv.  338 

Ah,  when  the  Bodv,  round  which  in  love  we  clung,  iv.  86 

Ah  !  where  is  Palafox?     Nor  tongue  nor  pen,  iii.  99 

Ah,  whv  deceive  ourselves !  by  no  mere  fit,  iv.  328 

Ai<l,  glorious  Martyrs,  from  your  fields  of  light,  iv.  121 

Aias!  what  boots  the  long,  laborious  quest,  iii.  92 

A  little  onward  lend  tliy  guiding  hand,  iv.  276 

All  praise  the  Likeness'by  thy  skill  portrayed,  ii.  387 

A  love-lorn  Maid,  at  some  far-distant  time,  iii.  262 

Ambition,  —  following  down  this  far-famed  slope,  iii.  171 

\mid  a  fertile  region  green  with  wood,  iii.  291 

Amid  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass,  ii.  3 

Amid  this  dance  of  objects  sadness  steals,  iii.  142 

A.mong  a  grave  fraternity  of  Jlonks,  iv.  318 

Among  the  dwellers  in  the  silent  fields,  v.  52 

Among  the  dwellings  framed  by  birds,  ii.  70 

Among  the  mountains  were  we  nursed,  loved  Stream,  iv.  186 

A  month,  sweet  Little-ones,  is  past,  i.  193 

All  age  hath  been  when  Earth  was  proud,  iv- 279 

.•\  narrow  girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags,  ii.  7 

And  IS  it  amouff  rude,  untutored  Dales,  iii.  93 

And  is  this  — Yarrow  V—  Thu  the  Stream,  iii.  60 


850  INDEX    '10    THE    FlliSX    LINES. 


And,  not  ia  vain  embodied  to  the  sight,  iv.  102 

And  sliall,  tlie  Pontiff  asks,  profaneness  flow,  iv.  94 

And  what  is  I'enaiice  with  her  knotted  tiiong,  iv.  110 

And  wliat  melodious  sounds  at  times  prevail,  iv.  102 

An  Orpheus!  an  Orpheus!  yes.  Faith  may  grow  bold,  ii.  133 

Another  year!  — another  deadly  blow!  iii.  81 

A  pen  —  to  register;  a  key,  iv.  2&7 

A  rilgrim,  when  the  summer  day,  ii.  66 

A  plague  on  your  languages,  German  and  Norse,  iv.  241 

A  pleasant  music  floats  along  the  Mere,  iv.  92 

A  Poet !  —  He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school,  ii.  383 

A  point  of  life  between  my  l^arents'  dust,  iv.  186 

Armj^  of  Clouds !  ye  winged  Host  in  troops,  ii.  255 

A  Rock  there  is  wliose  homely  front,  ii.  239 

A  Roman  JIaster  stands  on  Grecian  ground,  iii.  85 

Around  a  wild  and  woody  hill,  iii.  146 

Arran!  a  single-crested  Tenerilfe,  iv.  204 

Art  thou  a  Statist,  in  the  van,  iv.  243 

Art  thou  the  bird  whom  ]\hui  loves  best,  ii.  49 

A  simple  Child,  i.  202 

As  faith  thus  sanctified  the  warrior's  crest,  iv.  104 

As  indignation  mastered  grief,  my  tongue,  iii.  224 

As  leaves  are  to  the  tree  whereon  they  grow,  iv.  330 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal,  ii.  130 

As  often  as  I  mnrnuu'  here,  ii.  63 

As  star  that  shines  dependent  upon  star,  iv.  139 

As  the  cold  aspect  of  a  sunless  waj'',  ii.  359 

A  Stream,  to  mingle  with  your  favorite  Dee,  ii.  372 

A  sudden  conflict  rises  from  the  swell,  iv.  135 

As,  when  a  storm  hath  ceased,  the  birds  regain,  iv.  76 

As  with  the  Stream  our  voyage  we  pursue,  iv.  96 

At  early  dawn,  or  ratlier  when  the  air,  ii.  364 

A  Traveller  on  the  skirt  of  Sarum's  Plain,  i.  53 

A  trouble,  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain,  iii.  276 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears,  ii.  133 

Avaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind,  iii.  102 

A  voice,  from  long-expecting  thousands  sent,  iv.  133 

A  volant  Tribe  of  Bards  on  earth  are  found,  ii.  341 

Avon,  —  a  precious,  an  immortal  name!  iii.  291 

A  weight  of  awe,  not  easy  to  be  borne,  iv.  220 

A  whirl-blast  from  behind  the  hill,  ii.  22 

A  wingt-d  Goddess,  clothed  in  vesture  wrought,  iii.  1S9 

A  youth  too  certain  of  his  power  to  wade,  iv.  200 

Bard  of  the  Fleece,  whose  skilful  genius  made,  ii.  330 

Beaumont!  it  was  thy  wish  that  I  should  rear,  ii.  322 

Before  I  see  another  ilay,  i.  288 

Before  the  world  bad  passed  her  time  of  youth,  iv.  336 

Begone,  thou  (bud  presumptunus  Klf,  ii.  23 

Bepiilcd  into  i"orgi;l fulness  ofcart^  iv.  313 

libiiold  <ui  emblem  of  our  liunian  mind,  v.  86 


INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES.  351 


BehoM  a  pupil  of  the  monkish  .sjown,  iv.  89 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field,  iii.  19 

Behold,  within "^the  leafy  shade,  i.  188 

Beloved  Vale!  1  said,  when  I  shall  con,  ii.  322 

Beneath  the  concave  of  an  Api-il  sky,  ii.  245 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed,  ii.  38 

Beneath  yon  eastern  ridge,  the  craggy  bound,  v.  73 

Be  this  tiie  chosen  site;  the  virgin _sod,  iv.  153 

l$etween  two  sister  moorland  rills,  ii.  60 

iJisliops  and  Priests,  blessed  are  ye,  if  deep,  iv.  138 

Black  Demons  hovering  o'er  his  mitred  head,  iv.  97 

Blest  is  this  Isle,  —  our  native  Land,  v.  30 

Blest  Statesman  he,  whose  Jlind's  unselfish  will,  iv.  325 

Bold  words  affirmed,  in  davs  when  faith  was  strong,  iv.  197 

Brave  Schill!  by  death  delivered,  take  thy  flight,  iii.  96 

Bright  Flower!  whose  home  is  everywhere,  iv.  246 

Broken  in  fortune,  but  in  mind  entire,  iv.  202 

Brook  and  road,  ii.  125 

Brook !  whose  society  the  poet  seeks,  ii.  362 

Bruges  I  saw  attired  with  golden  light,  iii.  136 

But  here  no  cannon  thunders  to  the  gale,  iii.  269 

But  liberty,  and  triumphs  on  the  Main,  iv.  152 

But,  to  outweigh  all  harm,  the  sacred  Book,  iv.  116 

But,  to  remote  Northumbria's  royal  Hall,  iv.  82 

But  what  if  one,  through  grove  or  flowery  mead,  iv.  87 

But  whence  came  tliey  who  for  the  Saviour  Lord,  iv.  106 

By  a  blest  Husband  guided,  Mary  came,  v.  144 

Bv  antique  Fancy  trimmed,  —  though  lowly,  bred.  iii.  164 

By  Art's  bold  privilege  Warrior  and  War-horse  stand,  ii.  386 

By  chain  vet  stronger  must  the  Soul  be  tied,  iv.  144 

By  Moscow  self-devoted  to  a  blaze,  iii.  109 

By  plavful  smiles,  alas !  too  oft,  v.  146 

By  such  examples  moved  to  unbought  pains,  iv.  88 

By  their  floating  mill,  ii.  64 

By  vain  aflections  unenthralled,  v.  145 

Call  not  tlie  royal  Swede  unfortunate,  iii.  97 
Calm  as  an  under-current,  strong  to  draw,  iv.  134 
Calm  is  all  nature  as  a  resting  wheel,  i.  2 
Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose,  iv.  160 
Calvert !  it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them,  ii.  342 
Change  me,  some  God,  into  that  breathing  rose !  iii.  262 
Ciiatsworth!  thv  stately  mansion,  and  the  pride,  ii.  380 
Child  of  loud-throated  War!  the  mountain  Stream,  iii.  21 
Child  of  the  clouds!  remote  from  every  taint,  iii.  249 
Clarkson !  it  was  an  obstinate  hill  to  climb,  iii.  86 
Closing  the  sacred  Book  which  long  has  fed,  iv.  148 
Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars,  iii.  88 
Coldly  we  spake.     The  Saxons,  overpowered,  iv.  93 
Ciime  ye,  wlio,  if  (which  Heaven  avert!)  the  Land,  iii.  80 
Companion!  by  whose  buoyant  spirit  cheered,  iii.  189 


352  INDEX    TO    THE    FIEST    LINES. 


Complacent  Fictions  were  they,  yet  the  same,  iii.  205 

Dark  and  more  dark  the  shades  of  evening  fell,  ii.  349 

Dai'kness  surrounds  us;  seeking,  we  are  lost,  iv.  75 

Days  passed,  —  and  Monte  Calvo  would  not  clear,  iii.  208 

Days  undcfiled  by  luxury  or  sloth,  iv.  328 

Dear  be  the  Church,  that,  watching  o'er  the  needs,  iv.  141 

Dear  Child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail,  ii.  220 

Dear  Fellow-travellers!  think  not  that  the  Muse,  iii.  136 

Dear  native  regions,  I  foretell,  i.  1 

Dear  Relics!  from  a  pit  of  vilest  mould,  iii.  117 

Dear  to  the  Loves,  and  to  tlie  Graces  vowed,  iv.  189 

Deep  is  the  lamentation!  not  alone,  iv.  115 

Degenerate  Douglas!  0  the  unworthy  Lord!  iii.  28 

Departed  Cliild !'  I  could  forget  thee  once,  i.  302 

Departing  Summer  hath  assumed,  iv.  284 

Deplorable  his  lot  who  tills  the  ground,  iv.  100 

Desire  we  past  illusions  to  recall,  iv.  197 

Desponding  Father!  mark  this  altered  bough,  ii.  359 

Despond  who  will, —  /heard  a  voice  exclaim,  iv.  203 

Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy,  v.  140 

Did  pangs  of  grief  for  lenient  Time  too  keen,  iv.  200 

Discourse  was  deemed  Man's  noblest  attribute,  iv.  257 

Dishonored  Rock  and  Ruin!  that,  by  law,  iii.  280 

Dogmatic  Teachers,  of  the  snow-white  fur,  ii.  362 

Doomed  as  we  are  our  native  dust,  iii.  147  ■ 

Doubling  and  doubling  with  laborious  walk,  iii.  283 

Down  a  swift  stream,  "thus  far,  a  bold  design,  iv.  135 

Dread  hour !  when,  upheaved  by  war's  sulphurous  blast,  iii.158 

Driven  in  by  Autumn's  sliarpening  air,  i.  373 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair,  ii.  365 

Fden!  till  now  thy  beauty  had  I  viewed,  iv.  216 

Emperors  and  Kings,  how'  oft  have  temjiles  rung,  iii.  119 

England!  the  time" is  come  when  thou  shouldst  wean,  iii.  77 

Enlightened  Teacher,  gladly  from  thy  hand,  ii.  392 

EiKJUgh!  for  see,  with  dim  association,  iv.  105 

Enough  of  climbing  toil !  —  Ambition  treads,  iv.  281 

Enough  of  garlands,  of  the  Arcadian  crook,  iii.  282 

Enough  of  rose-bu<l  lips,  and  eyes,  v.  56 

,^,re  the  Brothers  through  the  gateway,  v.  36 

Ere  with  cold  beads  of  midnight  dew,  i.  275 

Ere  yet  our  course  was  graced  with  social  trees,  iii.  252 

Eternal  Lord!  eased  of  a  cumbrous  load,  iii.  222 

Eliiereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky,  ii.  195 

Even  as  a  dragon's  eye  that  feels  the  stress,  ii.  358 

Even  so  fjr  me  a  Vision  sanctified,  ii.  338 

Even  such  the  contrast  that,  where'er  we  move,  iv.  126 

Even  while  I  sneak,  the  sacred  roofs  of  Franco,  iv.  151 

Excuse  is  needless  when  with  love  sincere,  ii.  332 


INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES.  353 

Failing:  impartial  measure  to  dispense,  ii.  390 

Fait  Ellen  Irwin,  when  she  sat,  iii.  11 

Fair  Ladv !  can  I  sing  of  flowers,  ii.  56  _„ 

Fair  Land !  Thee  all  men  greet  with  joy;  how  few,  j"    224 

Fair  Prime  of  life!  were  it  enough  to  gild,  ii.  346 

Fair  Star  of  evening.  Splendor  of  the  west,  in.  64 

Fallen,  and  diffused  into  a  shapeless  heap,  iii.  265 

Fame  tells  of  gi-oves,  —  from  England  far  away,  n.  3<0 

Fancv,  who  leads  the  pastimes  of  the  glad,  ii.  17 

Farewell,  thou  little  Xook  of  mountain-ground,  i.  266 

Vnr  from  mv  dearest  Friend,  't  is  mine  to  rove,  i.  3 

Far  from  our  home  by  Grasmere's  quiet  lake,  v.  1 

Father!  to  God  himself  we  cannot  give,  iv.  141 

Fear  hath  a  hundred  e.ves  that  all  agi-ee,  iv.  125 

Feel  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken,  iv.  331  _ 

Festivals  have  I  seen  that  were  not  names,  iii.  67 

Fit  retribution,  bv  the  moral  code,  iv.  336     , 

Five  vears  have  past;  five  summers,  with  the  length,  ii.  186 

Flattered  with  promise  of  escape,  iv.  294 

Fly,  some  kind  Harbinger,  to  Grasmere  dale,  iii.  36 

Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee.  Sleep,  ii.  328 

For  action  born,  existing  to  be  tried,  iii.  210 

Forbear  to  deem  the  Chronicler  unwise,  iii.  206 

For  ever  hallowed  be  this  morning  ftiir,  iv.Sl 

For  gentlest  uses,  ofttimes  Nature  takes,  iii.  149 

Forgive,  illustrious  Country!  these  deep  sighs,  iii.  209 

Forth  from  a  iutting  ridge,' around  whose  base,  ii.  16 

For  what  contend  the  wise?  —for  nothing  less,  iv.  IIT 

Four  fiery  steeds  impatient  of  the  rein,  ii.  361 

From  Bolton's  old  monastic  tower,  iv.  4 

From  earlv  vouth  I  ploughed  the  restless  Main,  iv.  201 

From  Ailse  assumption  rose,  and,  fondly  hailed,  iv.  99 

From  Little  down  to  Least,  in  due  degree,  iv.  142 

From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb,  iv.  150 

From  Eite  and  Ordinance  abused  they  fled,  iv.  137 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen,  iii.  29 

From  the  Baptismal  hour,  through  weal  and  woe,  iv.  148 

From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed,  ii.  345 

From  the  fierce  aspect  of  this  River,  throwing,  iii.  145 

From  the  Pier's  head,  musing,  and  with  increase,  iii.  1S4 

From  this  deep  chasm,  where  quivering  sunbeams  play,  J"  368 

Frowns  are  on  eveiy  Muse's  face,  ii.  54 

Fui-1  we  the  sails,  and  pass  with  tardy  oars,  iv.  103 

Genius  of  Raphael!  if  thy  wings,  ii.  260 

Giordano,  verily  thy  Pencil's  skill,  iy.  180 

Glad  sight  wheVeveV  new  with  old,  ii.  58 

Glide  gentlv,  thus  for  ever  glide,  i.  19 

Glory  to  God !  and  to  the  Power  who  came,  iv.  158 

Go  back  to  antique  ages,  if  thine  eyes,  iii.  88 

Go,  faithful  Portrait!  and  where  long  hath  knelt,  ii.  382 

v<>i„   V.  '2'.i 


554  INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES. 


Grant,  that  by  this  unsparing  hurricane,  iv.  116 
Great  men  have  been  among  us;  hands  that  penned,  iii.  73 
Greta,  what  tearful  hstening!  wlien  huge  stones,  iv.  185 
Grief,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever-ready  friend,  ii.  332 
Gi-ieve  for  the  Man  who  hither  came  bereft,  iii.  215 

Had  this  efTulgence  disappeared,  iv.  170 

Hail,  orient  Conqueror  of  gloomj'  Night,  iii.  125 

Hail  to  the  fields,  —  with  Dwellings  sprinkled  o'er,  iii..  256 

Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour,  ii.  356 

Hail,  Virgin  Queen!  o'er  many  an  envious  bar,  iv.  122 

Hail,  Zaragozal     If  with  unwet  ej'e,  iii.  95 

Happy  the  feeling  from  the  bosom  thrown,  ii.  320 

Hard  task!  exclaim  the  undisciplined,  to  lean,  iv.  329 

Hark!  't  is  the  Thrush,  undaunted,  undeprest,  ii.  888 

Harmonious  Powers  with  Nature  work,  v.  27 

Harp !  couldst  thou  venture,  on  thy  boldest  string,  iv.  128 

Hast  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant,  v.  82 

Hast  thou  then  survived,  ii.  82 

Haydon!  let  worthier  Judges  praise  the  skill,  ii.  383 

Here  Man  more  purely  lives,  less  oft  doth  fall,  iv.  100 

Here,  on  our  native  soil,  we  breathe  once  more,  iii.  70 

Here  on  their  knees  men  swore:  the  stones  were  black,  iv.  214 

Here  pause:  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise,  iii.  106 

Here  stood  an  Oak,  that  long  had  borne  affixed,  iii.  293 

Here,  where,  of  havoc  tired  and  rash  undoing,  ii.  397 

Her  eyes  are  wild,  her  head  is  bare,  i.  377 

Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat,  ii.  324 

High  bliss  is  only  for  a  higher  state,  i.  372 

High  deeds,  0  Gei-mans,  are  to  come  from  you,  iii.  87 

High  in  the  breathless  Hall  the  Minstrel  sate,  ii.  179 

High  is  our  calling.  Friend!  —  Creative  Art,  ii.  344 

High  on  a  broad,  unfertile  tract  of  forest-skirted  Down,  i.  aU 

High  on  her  speculative  tower,  iii.  164 

His  simple  truths  did  Andrew  glean,  ii.  25 

Holy  and  heavenly  Spirits  as  tliey  are,  iv.  124 

Homeward  we  turn.     Isle  of  Columba's  Cell,  iv.  214 

Hope  rules  a  land  for  ever  green,  ii.  233 

Hope  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  cast,  iv.  211 

Hopes,  what  are  thev?  —  Beads  of  morning,  v.  79 

How  art  thou  named?    In  search  o''  what  strange  land,  ii.  3?2 

How  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night,   >n  high,  v.  28 

How  beautiful  when  up  a  lofty  height,  i.  359 

How  beautiful  your  ])resence,  how  benign,  iv.  84 

How  blest  the  Maid  whose  heart  —  yet  free,  iii.  168 

How  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously  bright^  ii.  ^'1 

How  disappeared  he?     Ask  the  newt  and  toad,  iii.  '.iSS 

How  fast  tlie  Marian  death-list  is  unrolled,  iv.  120 

How  profitless  the  relics  that  we  cull,  iii.  295 

How  richly  glows  the  water's  breast,  i.  18 

How  rich  "that  forehead's  calm  expanse,  i.  282 


2 


INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LIXES.  35.'l 

HoiV  sfid  a  welcome!     To  each  voyager,  iv.  213 

How  shall  I  paint  thee?  —  Be  this  naked  stone,  in.  2d0 

How  soon,  alas!  did  Man,  created  pure,  ip.  98 

How  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  Fancy  rocks,  ii.  344 

Humanity,  delighting  to  behold,  iii.  106 

Hunger,  and  sultry  heat,  and  nipping  blast,  m.  104 

I  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delight,  iv.  254 

I  come,  ve  little  noisy  Crew,  v.  147 

I  dropped  my  pen;  and  listened  to  the  Wind,  m.  90 

If  from  the  public  wvy  you  turn  your  steps,  i.  342 

If  Life  were  slumber  on'a  bed  of  down,  iv.  190 

If  Nature,  for  a  favorite  child,  iv.  247 

If  there  be  prophets  on  whose  spirits  rest,  iv.  73 

If  these  brief  Records,  by  the  Muses'  art,  ii.  366 

If  the  whole  weight  of  what  we  think  and  feel,  ii.  348 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain,  iv.  304 

If  thou  in  the  dear  love  of  some  one  Friend,  v.  84 

If  to  Tradition  faith  be  due,  iii.  285 

If  with  old  love  of  you,  dear  Hills!  I  share,  iu.  225 

I  grieved  for  Buonaparte,  with  a  vain,  iii.  66 

I  have  a  boy  of  five  years  old,  i.  209 

I  heard  (alas!  't  was  only  in  a  dream),  ii.  347 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes,  iv.  233 

I  know  an  aged  JIan  constrained  to  d.well,  v.  24 

I  listen,  —  but  no  faculty  of  mine,  iij.  154 

Imagination  —  ne'er  before  content,  iii.  120 

I  marvel  how  Nature  could  ever  find  space,  iv.  234 

I  met  Louisa  in  the  shade,  i.  272 

Immured  in  Bothwell's  towers,  at  times  the  Brave,  iii.  299 

In  Bruges  town  is  many  a  street,  iii.  137 

In  desultory  walk  through  orchard  grounds,  v.  46 

In  distant  countries  have  I  been,  i.  291 

In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite,  iii.  99 

Inland,  within  a  hollow  vale,  I  stood,  iii.  71 

Inmate  of  a  mountain  dwelling,  ii.  218 

In  my  mind's  eye  a  Temple,  like  a  cloud,  ii.  394 

Intent  on  gathering  wool  from  hedge  and  brake,  ii.  390. 

In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  Tree,  v.  78 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan,  iv.  237 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men,  iii.  16 

In  trellised  shed  with  clustering  roses  gay,  iv.  1 

Intrepid  sons  of  Albion!  not  by  you,  iii.  117 

In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went,  ii.  32 

I  rose  while  yet  the  cattle,  heat-oppressed,  iii.  266 

I  saw  a  Mother's  eye  intensely  bent,  iv.  119 

i  saw  an  a^ed  Beggar  in  my  walk,  v.  143 

I  saw  far  off  the  dark  top  of  a  Pine,  iii.  203 

1  saw  the  figure  of  a  lovely  Maid,  iv.  128 

Is  Death,  when  evil  against  good  has  fought,  iv.  884 

\  shiver.  Spirit  fierce  and  bold,  iii.  2 


556  INDi:X    TO    THE    FIKST    LINES. 


Fs  it  a  reed  that 's  shaken  by  the  wind,  iii.  66 
Is  tlien  no  nooiv  of  English  ground  secure,  ii.  395 
Is  tlien  the  final  page  before  me  spread,  iii.  184 
Is  tliere  a  power  that  can  sustain  and  cheer,  iii.  98 
Is  this,  ye  Gods,  the  Capitolian  Hill?  iii.  204 
I  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide,  iii.  270 
It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  ii.  339 
It  is  no  Spirit  who  from  lieaven  hath  flown,  ii.  192 
It  is  not  to  be  thought  of,  that  the  Flood,  iii.  74 
It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March,  iv.  235 
I  travelled  among  unknown  men,  i.  275 

It  seems  a  day,  ii.  123 

It  was  a  moral  end  for  which  they  fought,  iii.  94 

It  was  an  April  morning:  fresh  and  clear,  ii.  1 

I  've  watched  j-ou  now  a  full  half-hour,  i.  265 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,  ii.  130 

I  was  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  Pile,  v.  150 

I  watch,  and  long  have  watched,  with  calm  regret,  ii  843 

I,  who  accompanied  with  faithful  pace,  iv.  72 

Jesu!  bless  our  slender  Boat,  iii.  142 
Jones!  as  from  Calais  southward  you  and  I,  iii.  65 
Just  as  those  final  words  were  penned,  the  sun  broke  cat  in 
power,  i.  227 

Keep  for  the  Young  the  impassioned  smile,  11.  212 

Lady!  a  Pen,  perhaps  with  thy  regard,  v.  48 

Lady !  I  rifled  a  Parnassian  Cave,  ii.  353 

Lady !  the  songs  of  Spring  were  in  the  grove,  ii.  354 

Lament!  for  Diocletian's  fiery  sword,  iv.  76 

Lance,  shield,  and  sword  relinquished,  at  his  side,  iv.  88 

Last  night,  without  a  voice,  that  Vision  spake,  iv.  129 

Let  other  bards  of  angels  sing,  i.  281 

Let  thy  wheelbarrow  alone,  ii.  30 

Let  us  quit  the  leafy  arbor,  i.  221 

Lie  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth,  iv.  262 

Life  with  yf>n  Lambs,  like  day,  is  just  begun,  ii.  386 

Like  a  shipwrecked  Sailor  tost,  iv.  295 

List,  the  winds  of  March  are  blowing,  iv.  298 

List! — 't  was  the  Cuckoo. —  0,  with  what  delight,  ii:.  211 

List,  ye  who  pass  bj'  Lyulnh's  Tower,  iv.  222 

Lo!  in  the  burning  west,  tlie  craggy  nape,  iii.  182 

Lone  Flower,  hemmed  in  with  snows  and  white  as  they,  iL  363 

Long-favored  Kngland !  be  not  thou  misled,  iv.  327 

Long  has  the  dew  been  dried  on  tree  and  lawn,  iii.  207 

Lonsdale!  it  were  unworthy  of  a  Guest,  iv.  221 

Look  at  the  fate  of  summer  flowers,  i.  276 

Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hatii  paid,  iii.  98 

S/^rd  of  the  vale!  astounding  Flood,  iii.  52 

Loud  is  the  Vale!  the  Voice  is  up,  v.  160 


INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES.  357 

Lovinfrsheis,  and  tractable,  though  wild,  i.lpn 

U!  where  she  stands  fixed  in  a  saint-hke  trance,  ii.  3«8 

Lo'  where  the  Moon  along  the  sky,  iv.  259 

Lowther!  in  thv  majestic  Pile  are  seen,  iv._221 

Lulled  bv  the  sound  of  pastoral  bells,  ni.  178 

Lyre!  though  such  power  do  in  thy  magic  live,  n   139 

Man's  life  is  like  a  Sparrow,  mighty  King,  iv.  82 
Mark  how  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  flood,  ii.  221 
Mark  the  concentred  hazels  that  inclose,  ii.  349 
Meek  Virgin  Mother,  more  benign,  iii.  150    ,,..„. 
Men  of  the  Western  World !  in  Fate's  dark  book,  iv.  337 
Men,  who  have  ceased  to  reverence,  soon  defy,  iv.  128 
Mercy  and  Love  have  met  thee  on  thy  road,  iv.  74 
Methinks  that  I  could  trip  o"er  lieaviest  soil,  iv.  123 
Methinks  that  to  some  vacant  hermitage,  iv.  86 
Methinks  't  were  no  unprecedented  feat,  iii.  264 
Methought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne,  ii.  338 
♦Mid  crowded  obelisks  and  urns,  iii.  9 
Mid-noon  is  past;  — upon  the  sultry  mead,  in.  264 
Milton !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour,  lu.  73 
Mine  ear  has  rung,  my  spirit  sunk  subdued,  iv.  154 
Miserrimus  !  mv\  neither  name  nor  date,  ii.  378 
Monastic  Domes !  following  my  downward  way,  iv.  150 
Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes,  iv.  229 
Mother!  whose  virgin  bosom  was  uncrost,  iv.  114 
Motions  and  Means,  on  land  and  sea  at  war,  iv.  219 
My  frame  hath  often  trembled  with  delight,  ui.  260 
My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold,  i.  187 

Nav  Traveller!  rest.    This  lonely  Yew-tree  stands,  i.  49 

Near  Anio's  stream,  I  spied  a  gentle  Dove,  iii.  208 

Kever  enlivened  with  the  liveliest  ray,  ii.  74 

Next  morning  Troilus  began  to  clear,  v.  112 

No  fiction  was  it  of  the  antique  age,  in.  255 

No  more:  the  end  is  sudden  and  abrupt,  in.  296 

No  mortal  object  did  these  eyes  behold,  ii.  336 

No  record  tel'ls  of  lance  opposed  to  lance,  iii.  267 

Nor  scorn  the  aid  which  Fancy  oft  doth  lend,  iv.  84 

Nor  shall  the  eternal  roll  of  praise  reject,  iv.  132 

Nor  wants  the  cause  the  panic-striking  aid,  iv.  79 

Not  a  breath  of  air,  ii.  121 

Not  envvins  Latian  shades,  —  if  yet  they  throw,  iii.  213 
Not  hurled  precipitous  from  steep  to  steep,  iii.  26b 
Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life,  iv.  164 
Not  in  the  mines  bevond  the  western  main,  iv.  228 
Not,  like  his  gi-eat  Compeers,  indignantly,  iii.  144 
Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell,  n.  34  8 
Kot  'mid  the  World's  vain  objects,  that  enslave,  iii.  88 
V-oX  .sedentary  all:  there  are  who  roam,  iv.  86 
Kot  se'dom,  clad  in  radiant  vest,  v  83 


358  INDEX   TO    TUK    FIKST    LINES. 


Not  so  that  Pair  whose  youthful  spirits  dance,  iii.  254 

Not  the  whole  warbling:  grove  in  concert  heard,  ii.  376 

Not  to  the  clouds,  not  to  the  clift',  he  flew,  iv.  206 

Not  to  the  object  specially  designed,  iv.  334 

Not  utterly  unworthy  to  endure,  iv.  114 

Not  witlio'ut  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  he.  v.  142 

Now  that  all  hearts  "are  glad,  all  faces  bright,  iii.  110 

Now  that  the  farewell  tear  is  dried,  iii.  159 

Now  we  are  tired  of  boisterous  joy,  iii.  37 

Now  when  the  primrose  makes  a  splendid  show,  v.  21 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room,  ii.  320 

Oak  of  Guernica !     Tree  of  holier  power,  iii.  101 

0  blithe  New-comer!     I  have  heard,  ii.  118 

0  dearer  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear,  i.  284 

O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain,  iii.  93 

O'erweening  Statesmen  have  full  long  relied,  iii.  103 

0  flower  of  all  that  s])rings  from  gentle  blood,  v.  141 

Of  mortal  parents  is  the  Hero  born,  iii.  90 

0  for  a  dirge!     But  why  complain?  v.  163 

0  for  a  kindling  touch  from  that  pure  flame,  iii.  118 

0  for  the  help  of  Angels  to  complete,  iii.  141 

0  Friend !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look,  iii.  72 

Oft  have  I  caught,  upon  a  fitful  breeze,  iv.  206 

Oft  have  I  seen,  ere  Titne  had  jiloughed  my  cheek,  ii  834 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucv  Grav,  i.  199 

Oft  is  the  medal  faithful  to  its  trust,  v.  71 

0  gentle  Sleep!  do  they  belong  to  thee,  ii.  327 

0  happy  time  of  youthful  lovers!  (thus,  i.  312 

0  Life!  without  thy  checkered  scene,  iii.  148 

0  Lord,  our  Lord!  how  wondrously,  quoth  she,  v.  87 

0  mountain  Stream !  the  Shepherd  and  his  Cot,  iii.  267 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee,  iii.  67 

Once  I  could  hail  (howe'er  serene  the  sky),  v.  28 

Once  in  a  lonely  hamlet  1  sojourned,  i.  308 

Once  more  the  "Church  is  seized  with  sudden  fear,  iv.  109 

Once  on  the  top  of  Tynwald's  formal  mound,  iv.  202 

One  might  believe  that  natural  miseries,  iii.  75 

One  morning,  raw  it  was  and  wet,  i.  305 

One  who  was  suflcring  tumult  in  his  soul,  ii.  352 

On  his  morning  rounds,  the  Master,  iv.  260 

0  Nightingale!  tliou  surely  art,  ii.  127 

On,  loitering  Muse!  —  the  swift  Stream  chides  tis, —  on!  iii.  266 

0  now  that  the  genius  of  Hewick  were  mine,  v.  132 

On  to  lona!  —  What  can  she  afford,  iv.  212 

Open  your  pates,  ye  everlasting  I'ilcs,  iv.  155 

0  pleasant  exerci>e  of  hope  and  joy,  ii.  193 

0  tliert.'  is  blessing  in  this  gentle  breeze,  vii.  9 

0  thou  who  movest  finwani  with  a  mind,  v.  137 

0  tlion  I  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought,  i.  217 

Our  bodily  life,  some  plead,  that  life  the  sJirine,  iv.  887 


IKDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES.  359 


Our  walk  was  far  among  the  ancient  trees,  ii.  10 
O-itstretching  flame-ward  his  upbraided  hand,  iv.  120 
0  what  a  Wreck !  how  changed  in  mien  and  speech,  ii.  ?83 
0,  wiiat  's  the  matter?  what 's  the  matter?  v.  41 

Pansies,  hlies,  kingcups,  daisies,  ii.  41 

Part  fenced  by  man,  part  by  a  rugged  steep,  iii.  2T6 

Pastor  and  Patriot!  — at  wliose  bidding  rise,  iv.  188 

Patriots  informed  with  Apostolic  Hgtit,  iv.  137 

Pause,  courteous  Spirit!  —  Balbi  supplicates,  v.  143 

Pause,  Traveller!  whosoe'er  thou  be,  v.  81 

Pelion  and  Ossa  flourish  side  by  side,  ii.  323 

People!  your  chains  are  severing  link  bj-  Hnk,  iv.  323 

Periiaps  some  needful  service  of  the  State,  v.  136 

Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet,  ii.  43 

Portentous  change,  when  History  can  appear,  iv.  325 

Praised  be  the  Art  whose  subtle'i^ower  could  stay,  ii.  325 

Praised  be  the  Rivers,  from  their  mountain  springs,  iv.  106 

Prejudged  by  foes  determined  not  to  spare,  iv.  127 

Presentiments  I  they  judge  not  right,  ii.  241 

Prompt  transformation  works  the  novel  Lore,  iv.  83 

Prouil  were  ye.  Mountains,  when,  in  times  of  old,  ii.  398 

Pure  element  of  waters !  wheresoe'er,  ii.  363 

Queen  of  the  stars!  so  gentle,  so  benign,  iv.  178 

Ranging  the  heights  of  Scawfell  or  Black  Comb,  iv.  196 

Rapt  above  earth  by  power  of  one  fair  face,  iii.  221_ 

Realms  quake  by  turns:  proud  Arbitress  of  grace,  iv.  96 

Record  we  too,  with  just  and  faithful  pen,  iv.  101 

Redoubted  King,  of  courage  leonine,  iv.  95 

Reluctant  call  it  was;  the  rite  delayed,  iv.  324 

Rest,  rest,  perturbed  Earth,  v.  161 

Return,  Content!  for  fondly  I  pursued,  iii.  265 

Rise !  —  thev  have  risen :  of"  brave  Aneurin  ask,  iv.  78 

Rotha,  my  Spiritual  Child !  this  head  was  gray,  ii.  378 

Rude  is  this  Edifice,  and  thou  hast  seen,  v.  74 

Sacred  Religion!  mother  of  form  and  fear,  iii.  260 
Sad  thoughts,  avaunt !  —  partake  we  their  blithe  cheer,  iii.  28» 
Said  Secrecv  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud,  iv.  324 
Say,  what  is  Honor? — 'T  is  the  finest  sense,  iii.  95 
Sav,  ve  far-travelled  clouds,  far-seeing  hills,  iii.  277 
Scattering,  like  birds  escaped  the  fowler's  net,  iv.  122 
Scorn  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic,  j'ou  have  frowned,  ii.  343 
Screams  round  the  Arch-druid's  brow  the  sea-mew. ~   white 

■v.  74 
Seek  who  will  delight  in  fable,  i.  233 
s«e  the  Condemned  alone  within  his  cell,  iv.  339 
See  what  gav  wild-flowers  deck  this  earth-built  Cot,  iii.  284 
^ee,  where  Ms  difficult  way  tha.'.  O'.l  Man  wins,  iii.  223 


860  INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES. 


Serene,  nnd  fitted  to  embrace,  ii.  204 

Serviiif;  no  Imughty  Muse,  my  liands  have  here,  ii.  891 

Seven  Daughters  had  Lord  Archibald,  ii.  46 

Shame  on  this  faithless  heart !  tliat  could  allow,  ii.  889 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways,  i.  274 

She  had  a  tall  man's  height  or  more,  ii.  140 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight,  ii.  126 

Show  me  the  noblest  Youth  of  present  time,  ii.  225 

Shout,  for  a  mighty  Victory  is  won,  iii.  81 

Shun  not  this  rite,  neglected,  yea  abhorred,  iv.  146 

Since  risen  from  ocean,  ocean  to  defy,  iv.  204 

Six  months  to  six  yeai-s  added  he  remained,  v.  145 

Six  thousand  veterans,  practised  in  war's  game,  iii.  32 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts,  v.  48 

Smile  of  the  Moon  !  — for  so  I  name,  i.  285 

So  fair,  .so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive,  iv.  319 

Soft  as  a  cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge,  — the  Mere,  iv.  167 

Sole  listener,  Duddon!  to  the  breeze  that  plaved,  iii.  261 

Soon  did  the  Almighty  Giver  of  all  rest,  v.  12 

Spade!  with  which  Wilkinson  hath  tilled  his  lands   iv.  267 

Stay,  bold  Adventurer;  rest  awhile  thy  limbs,  v.  75 

Stay,  little  cheerful  Robin!  stay,  v.  24 

Stay  near  me;  do  not  take  thy  flight,  i.  187 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God,  iv.  266 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known,  i.  273 

Stranger!  this  hillock  of  misshapen  stones,  v.  76 

Stretched  on  the  dying  Mother's  lap  lies  dead,  iv.  217 

Such  age  how  beautiful!  0  Lady  bright,  ii.  377 

Such  fruitless  questions  may  not  long  beguile,  iii.  258 

Surprised  by  joy,  impatient  as  the  Wind,  ii.  337 

Sweet  Flower!  belike  one  day  to  have,  v.  153 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower,  iii.  13 

Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  Youvh;  —  so  felt,  iv.  118 

Swiftly  turn  the  murmurin,'T  wheel,  ii.  51 

Sylph  was  it?  or  a  Bird  more  bright,  ii.  75 

Take,  cradled  Nursling  of  the  mDuntain,  ('•a":e,  iii.  "250 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense,  iv.  156 

Tell  me,  ye  Zephyrs !  that  unfoM,  ii.  20 

Tenderly  do  we  feel  by  Nature's  law,  iv.  3'i3 

Thanks  for  the  lessons  of  this  spot,  —  fit  school,  iv.  210 

That  happy  gleam  of  vernal  eyes,  v.  22 

That  heresies  should  strike,  if  truth  be  scanned,  iv  78 

Tlijit  is  work  of  waste  and  ruin,  i.  189 

That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo,  ii.  77 

The  Ha])tist  might  have  been  ordained  to  cry,  iii.  220 

die  Bard..  —  whose  soul  is  meek  as  dawni'ig  day,  iii.  II!) 

The  captive  Bird  was  gone; —  to  clifl'or  moor,  iv.  -iori 

The  cattle,  crowding  round  this  beverage  cUar,  iv.  188 

The  Cock  is  crowing,  ii.  138 

1  he  Crescent-moon,  the  Star  of  Love,  iv.  175 

The  Danish  Conqueror,  on  his  royal  chair,  iv.  274 


INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES.  361 

The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long,  i.  301 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to  bhnk,  i.  213 

The  embowerinc;  rose,  the  acacia,  and  the  pnie,  v.  70 

The  encircling  ground,  in  native  turf  arrayed,  iv.  1S4 

The  fairest,  brightest  hues  of  ether  fade,  ii.  325 

The  feudal' Kee'jj,  the  bastions  of  Cohorn,  iv.  198 

The  fields  which  with  covetous  spirit  we  sold,  i.  296 

The  floods  are  roused,  and  will  not  soon  be  weary,  iv.  218 

The  forest  huge  of  ancient  Caiedon,  iii.  292 

The  formal  World  relaxes  her  cold  chain,  iv.  340 

The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained,  iii.  271 

The  gentlest  Poet,  with  free  thoughts  endowed,  u.  259 

The  gentlest  Sh.ade  that  walked  Elysian  plains,  in.  1 

The  God  of  Love,  —  ah  benediciie  !  v.  97 

The  imperial  Consort  of  the  Fairy-king,  ii.  329 

The  imperial  stature,  the  colossal  stride,  ii.  368 

The  Kirk  of  Ulpha  to  the  pilgrim's  eye,  iii.  268        __ 

The  Knight  had  ndden  down  from  Wensley  flloor,  n.  )7l 

The  Land  we  from  our  fathers  had  in  trust,  iii.  92 

The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak-crowned  hill,  iv.  188 

The  linnet's  warble,  sinking  towards  a  close,  iv.  165 

The  little  hedgerow  birds,  v.  134 

The  lovely  Nun  (submissive,  but  more  meek,  iv.  112 

The  Lovers  took  within  this  ancient  grove,  iii.  293 

The  martial  courage  of  a  day  is  vain,  iii.  96 

The  massy  Ways,  carried  across  these  heights,  v.  /  8 

The  Minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune,  iii.  246 

The  most  alluring  clouds  Ihat  mount  the  sky,  n.  384 

The  old  inventive  Poets,  had  they  seen,  iii.  261 

The  oppression  of  the  tumult,  —  wrath  and  scorn,  iv.  80 

The  peace  which  others  seek  they  find,  i.  277     _ 

The  pibroch's  note,  discountenanced  or  mute,  ni.  279 

The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career,  i.  196 

The  power  of  Armies  is  a  visible  thing,  iii.  105  _ 

The  prayers  I  make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed,  ii.  336 

There  are  no  colors  in  the  fairest  sky,  iv.  131    _   ^ 

There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear,  ni.  <6 

There  is  a  change,  — and  I  am  poor,  i.  280 

There  is  a  Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine,  v.  131 

There  is  a  little  unpretending  Rill,  ii.  324     __ 

There  is  an  Eininence,  —  of  these  oiir  hills,  ii.  7 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains,  ii.  355 

ThereMs  a  Thorn,  — it  looks  so  old,  ii.  162 

There  is  a  Yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale,  ii.  121      . 

There  never  breathed  a  man  who,  when  his  lite,  v.  138 

There!  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pnde,  iv.  216 

There  's  George  Fisher,  Charles  Fleming,  and  Reginald  Shore. 

i.  211  ^   .   „^„ 

There  's  more  in  words  than  I  can  teach,  i.  369 
There  's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass,  iii.  278 
Theie  's  something  in  a  flying  horse,  ii.  273 


5G2  ES'DEX    TO    THE    FIRST     LINES. 


There  was  a  Boj';  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs,  ii.  117 

Tliere  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night,  ii.  155 

There  was  a  time  wlieii  meadow,  grove,  and  stream,  v.  177 

The  Roman  Consul  doomed  his  sons  to  die,  iv.  333 

The  Sabbath  bells  renew  the  inviting  peal,  iv.  146 

The  saintly  Youth  has  ceased  to  rule,  discrowned,  iv.  119 

These  times  strike  moneyed  worldlings  with  dismay,  iii.  76 

Tiiese  Tourists,  Heaven  preserve  us !  needs  must  live,  i.  2SJ 

The  Sheep-boy  whistled  loud,  and  lo!  v.  156 

The  Siiepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said,  ii.  35& 

The  sky  is  overcast,  ii.  120 

The  soaring  lark  is  biest  as  proud,  v.  13 

The  Spirit  of  Antiquitj'  —  ensln-ined,  iii.  137 

The  stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature's  hand,  ii.  358 

Tlie  stnjggling  rill  insensiblj'  is  grown,  iii.  254 

The  sun  has  long  been  set,  iv.  170 

The  sun  is  couched,  the  sea-fowl  gone  to  rest,  iv.  162 

The  Sun,  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire,  iv.  161 

The  sylvan  slopes  with  corn-clad  fields,  iv.  283 

The  tears  of  man  in  various  measure  gush,  iv.  116 

The  Troop  will  be  impatient;  let  us  hie,  i.  80 

The  turbaned  Race  are  poured  in  thickening  swarms,  iv.  vi 

The  unremitting  voice  of  nightlv  streams,  iv.  295 

The  valley  rings  with  mirth  and  joy,  i.  205 

Tiie  Vested  Priest  before  the  Altar  stands,  iv.  144 

The  Virgin-Mountain,  wearing  like  a  Queen,  iv.  126 

Tlie  Voice  of  Song  from  distant  lands  shall  call,  iii.  68 

The  wind  is  now  thy  organist;  —  a  clank,  iii.  278 

Tlie  woman-hoarted"  Confessor  prepares,  iv.  92 

The  world  forsaken,  all  its  busy  cares,  iii.  216 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon,  ii.  341 

Tliey  called  thee  Mekky  England,  in  old  time,  iv.  184 

They  dreamt  not  of  a  perislial)le  iiomc,  iv.  157 

The  Yonng-ones  gathered  in  from  hill  and  dale,  iv.  143 

They  seek,  are  sougiit;  to  daily  battle  led,  iii.  104 

They  who  have  seen  the  nobleRoman's  scorn,  iii.  206 

This  Height  a  ministering  Angel  might  select,  ii.  222 

This  Land  of  Rainbows  spanning  glens  whose  walls,  iii.  280 

This  Lawn,  a  carpet  all  alive,  iv.  288 

This  moss-lined  shed,  green,  soft,  and  drj',  ii.  59 

This  Spot  —  at  once  unfolding  sight  so  i'air,  iv.  332 

Tiiose  breathing  Tokens  of  your  kind  regard,  v.  16 

Those  had  given  earliest  notice,  as  the  lark,  iv.  107 

Those  old  credulities,  to  nature  dear,  iii.  204 

Those  silver  clouds  collected  round  the  sun,  ii.  224 

Those  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood,  ii.  3fiO 

Though  I  b'lheld  at  first  with  blank  surprise,  ii.  3H1 

Though  joy  attend  thee  orient  at  the  birth,  iii.  2t'9 

Though  many  suns  have  risen  and  set,  iv.  309 

riiiingh  i:arniw  be  that  old  Man's  cares,  and  near,  ii.  361 

Ihough  searching  damps  and  oiany  an  envious  (law,  iii.  16& 


INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES.  363 

Thoagh  the  bold  -wings  of  Poesy  affect,  ii.  366 

Though  the  torrents  from  their  fountains,  ii.  63 

Though  to  give  timely  warning  and  deter,  iv.  337 

Thou%ok'st  upon  me,  and  dost  fondly  think,  iv.  187 

Thou  sacred  Pile !  whose  turrets  rise,  iii.  158 

Threats  come  which  no  submission  may  assuage,  iv.  Ill 

Three  vears  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower,  ii.  128 

Through  shattered  galleries,  'mid  roofless  halls,  ii.  371 

Thus  ail  things  lead  to  Charity,  secured,  iv.  152 

Thus  is  the  storm  abated  by  the  craft,  iv.  108 

Thy  functions  are  ethereal,  ii.  263 

'T  Is  eight  o'clock,—  a  clear  j\hirch  night,  i.  324 

'T  is  sone,  —  with  old  belief  and  dream,  ii.  236 

'T  is  He  whose  yester-evening's  high  disdain,  ii.  389 

'T  is  not  for  the"  unfeeling,  the  falsely  refined,  v.  126 

•T  is  said,  fantastic  Ocean  doth  enfold,  iii.  135 

'T  is  said,  that  some  have  died  for  love,  i.  278 

'T  is  said  that  to  the  brow  of  yon  fair  hill,  ii.  380 

'T  is  spent,  —  this  burning  day  of  June,  ii.  85 

To  a  good  Man  of  most  dear  memory,  v.  168 

To  appease  the  Gods;  or  public  thanks  to  yield,  iii.  174 

To  barren  heath,  bleak  moor,  and  quaking  fen,  iii.  48 

To  kneeling  Worshippers  no  earthly  floor,  iv.  147 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow,  iii.  6 

To  public  notice,  with  reluctance  strong,  v.  163 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men,  iii.  69 

Tradition,  be  thou  mute!     Obh\'ion,  throw,  iii.  281 

Tranquillity !  the  sovereign  aim  wert  thou,  iv.  218 

Troubled  long  with  warring  notions,  v.  83 

True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero,  v.  139 

■T  was  summer,  and  the  sun  had  mounted  high,  vi.  11 

Two  Voices  are  there ;  one  is  of  the  sea,  iii.  71 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  stately  Pile,  iii.  220 
Ungrateful  Country,  if  thou  e'er  forget,  iv.  134 
Unless  to  Peter's  Chair  the  viewless  wind,  ir.  98 
Unquiet  Childhood  here  by  special  grace,  ii.  376 
Untouched  through  all  severity  of  cold,  ii.  381 
Up,  Timothy,  up  with  your  staff"  and  away,  i.  307 
Up  to  the  throne  of  God  is  borne,  iv.  305 
Up!  up!  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books,  iv.  232 
Up  with  me'!  up  with  me  into  the  clouds,  ii.  39 
Urged  by  Ambition,  who  with  subtlest  skill,  iy.  90 
Utfered  by  whom,  or  how  inspired,  designed,  iii.  144 

Vallombrosa !  I  longed  in  thy  shadiest  wood,  iii.  172 
Vallombrosa!  I  longed  in  thy  shadiest  wood,  iii.  21S 
Vanguard  of  Liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent,  iii.  78 

Wait,  prithee,  wait!  this  answer  Lesbia  threw,  ii.  376 
si'auderer !  that  stoop'st  so  low,  and  com'st  so  near,  iv.  176 


564  TNDEX     rO    THE    FIRST    LINES. 


Wansfell !  this  Household  has  a  favored  lot.  ii.  898 

Ward  of  the  Law !  —  dread  Shadow  of  a  King,  ii.  369 

Was  it  to  disenchant,  and  to  undo,  iii.  140 

VVa>  the  aim  frustrated  by  force  or  sruile,  ii.  364 

Watch,  and  be  finn!  for  soul-subduing  vice,  iv.  77 

Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind,  ii.  342 

We  can  endure  that  lie  should  waste  our  lands,  iii.  102 

Weep  not,  lieloved  Friends!  nor  let  the  air,  v.  136 

We  had  a  female  Passenger  who  came,  iii.  69 

We  have  not  passed  into  a  doleful  City,  iv.  215 

Well  have  yon  Railway  Laborers  to  this  ground,  ii.  397 

Well  mayst  thou  halt,  —  and  gaze  with  brightening  eye,  ii.  321 

Well  sang  the  Bard  who  called  the  grave,  in  strains,  iii.  2S2 

Well  worthy  to  be  magnified  are  they,  iv.  136 

Were  there,  below,  a  spot  of  holy  ground,  i.  22 

We  saw,  but  surely,  in  the  luotley  crowd,  iv.  209 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue,  iv.  251 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red,  iv.  248 

What  aim  had  tiiey,  the  pair  of  Monks,  in  size,  iii.  217 

What  aspect  bore  the  Man  who  roved  or  fled,  iii.  253 

What  awful  perspective!  while  from  our  sight,  iv.  156 

What  beast  in  wilderness  or  cultured  field,  iv.  107 

What  beast  of  chase  hath  broken  from  the  cover?  iii.  173 

What  crowd  is  this?  what  have  we  here?  we  must  not  pass 

it  by,  ii.  135 
What  heavenly  smiles!     0  Lady  mine,  i.  283 
What !  he  who,  'mid  the  kindred  throng,  iii.  55 
What  if  our  mimbers  barely  could  defy,  iii.  79 
What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene,  iv.  271 
What  know  we  of  the  Blest  above,  iii.  149 
What  lovelier  home  could  gentle  Fancy  choose,  iii.  140 
What  mischief  cleaves  to  unsubdued  regi'et,  iv.  174 
What  need  of  clamorous  bells,  or  ribbons  gay,  ii.  334 
What  strong  allurement  draws,  what  spirit  guides,  ii.  392 
What  though  the  Accused,  upon  his  own  ajipeal,  iv.  289 
What  though  the  Italian  pencil  wrought  not  here,  iii.  152 
What  way  does  the  Wind  come?  What  way  does  he  go?  i.  191 
What,  you  are  stepping  westward?  —  Yea,  iii.  18 
When  Al|)ine  vales  threw  forth  a  suppliant  cry,  iv.  132 
Whence  that  low  voice?  — A  whisper  from  the  heart,  iii.  263 
When,  far  and  wide,  swift  as  the  beams  of  morn,  iii.  86 
When  .Trst,  descending  from  the  moorlands,  v.  173 
When  haughty  expectations  prostrate  lie,  ii.  356 
When  here  with  Carthage  Uonie  to  conflict  came,  iii.  210 
When  human  touch  (as  monkish  books  attest),  ii.  360 
When  1  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed,  iii.  74 
When,  in  the  antique  age  of  bow  and  spear,  v.  35 
When,  lonking  on  the  present  face  of  things,  iii.  78 
When  I'hiloctetes  in  the  Lemnian  isle,  ii.  374 
V\  hen  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate,  ii.  145 
When  the  soft  Imud  of  sleep  hud  closed  the  latch,  iii.  Ill 


INDEX    TO    THE    FIRST    LINES.  365 


When  thy  great  soul  was  freed  from  mortal  chains,  iv.  90 

When,  to  the  attractions  of  tlie  busy  world,  ii.  11 

Where  are  they  now,  those  wanton  Boys?  ii.  142 

Where  ar*^^  thou,  my  beloved  Son,  i.  298 

Where  be  the  noisy  followers  of  tlie  game,  iii.  183 

Where  be  the  temples  which,  in  Britain's  isle,  i.  255 

Where  holy  ground  begins,  unhallowed  ends,  ii.  370 

Where  lies' the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go?  ii.  340 

Where  lies  the  truth?  has  Man,  in  wisdom's  creed,  iv.  182 

Where  long  and  deeply  hath  been  fixed  the  root,  iv.  104 

Where  towers  are  crushed,  and  unforbidden  weeds,  iii.  226 

Where  will  they  stop,  those  breathing  Powers,  ii.  250 

While  Anna's  peers  and  early  playmates  tread,  ii.  374 

While  beams  of  orient  light  shoot  wide  and  high,  ii.  394 

While  flowing  rivers  yield  a  blameless  sport,  ii.  330 

While  from  the  purpling  east  departs,  iv.  306 

While  Jlerlin  paced  the  Cornish  sands,  iii.  229 

While  not  a  leaf  seems  faded;  while  the  fields,  ii.  351 

W^hile  poring  Antiquarians  search  the  ground,  ii.  379 

While  the  Poor  gather  round,  till  the  end  of  time,  iii.  294 

Who  but  hails  the  sight  with  pleasure,  ii.  52 

Who  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  moon  on  high,  iv.  181 

Who  comes,  —  with  rapture  greeted,  and  caressed,  iv.  130 

Who  fancied  what  a  pretty  sight,  ii.  48 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?     Who  is  he,  iv.  268 

Who  ponders  National  events  shall  find,  iv.  326 

Who  rashly  strove  thy  Image  to  portray  ?  iv.  320 

Who  rises  on  the  banks  of  Seine,  iii.  82 

Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce,  iii.  267 

Why  art  thou  silent?     Is  thy  love  a  plant,  ii.  382 

Why  cast  ye  back  upon  the  Gallic  shore,  iii.  182 

Why,  Minstrel,  these  untuneful  marmurings,  ii.  326 

Why  should  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  through  this  Isle,  iv.lS4 

Why  should  we  weep  or  mourn.  Angelic  Boy,  v.  159 

Why  sleeps  the  future,  as  a  snake  enrolled,  iv.  158 

Why  stand  we  gazing  on  the  sparkling  Brine,  iv.  199 

Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone,  iv.  230 

Wild  Redbreast!  hadst  thou  at  Jemima's  lip,  ii.  373 

VVMsdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe,  i.  219 

With  copious  eulogy  in  prose  or  rhyme,  v.  166 

With  each  recurrence  of  this  glorious  morn,  ii.  333 

With  how  sad  steps,  0  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  sky,  ii.  867 

Within  her  gilded  cage  confined,  ii.  58 

Within  our  happy  Castle  there  dwelt  One,  i.  269 

Within  the  mind  strong  fancies  work,  ii.  209 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see,  ii.  36 

Witli  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn,  ii.  196 

With  Sliips  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh,  ii.  340 

A'oe  to  the  Crown  that  doth  the  Cowl  obey,  iv.  91 

rt'oe  to  you.  Prelates !  rioting  in  ease.  iv.  109 

Woman !  the  Power  who  left  his  throne  on  high,  iv.  146 


366  INDF.X    TO    THK    FIRST    LIKES. 


Wouklst  thou  be  tanglit,  wlien  sleep  has  taken  flight,  ii.  258 
Would  that  our  scrupulous  Sires  had  dared  to  leave,  iv   l-i8 

Ye  Apennines !  with  all  your  fertile  vales,  iii.  190 

Ve  brood  of  conscience.  Spectres !  that  frequent,  iv.  335 

Ye  Lime-trees,  ranged  before  this  hallowed  Urn,  v.  72 

Ye  sacred  Nurseries  of  blooming  Youth,  ii.  367 

Ye  shadowy  Beings,  that  have  rights  and  claims,  iv.  211 

Yes !  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep  pace,  ii.  335 

Yes,  if  the  intensities  of  hope  and  fear,  iv.  140 

Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Kclio,  ii.  194 

Yes!  thou  art  fair,  yet  be  not  moved,  i.  282 

.Yes,  though  he  well  may  tremble  at  the  sound,  iv.  339 

Ye  Storms,  resound  the  praises  of  vour  King,  iii.  108 

Yet  are  they  here,  the  same  unbroken  knot,  ii.  144 

Yet  many  a  Novice  of  the  cloistral  shade,  iv.  113 

Yet  more,  —  round  many  a  Convent's  blazing  fire,  iv.  Ill 

Ye,  too,  must  fly  before  a  chasing  hand,  iv.  113 

Ye  Trees!  whose  slender  roots  entwine,  iii  222 

Yet  Truth  is  keenly  sought  for,  and  the  wind,  iv.  130 

Yet,  3'et,  Biscayans !  we  must  meet  our  Foes,  iii.  102 

Ye  vales  and  hills  whose  beauty  hither  drew,  v.  175 

You  call  it,  "  Love-lies-bleeding,"  —  so  you  may,  ii.  73 

You  have  heard  a  Spanish  Lady,  i.  361 

Young  England,  —  what  is  then  become  of  Old,  iv.  3SC 


END    OF    VOL.    V. 


THE  LIBRARY  - 

dSvebs™   of  cXl^ob^ 

LOS  ANGbLES 


